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AS GOOD AS A MOTHER.

( From a painting by J. Hayllar.)

ST. NICHOLAS:

Scribner's
Illustrated Magazine

For Girls and Boys,

CONDUCTED BY

MARY MAPES DODGE.

VOLUME IV.

November, 1876, to November, 1877.

SCRIBNER & CO., NEW YORK.

Press of Francis Hart 8l Co.
New- York.

library, Univ. «f
North Carolina

CONTENTS VOLUME IV.

Abraham Lincoln, A Reminiscence of. (Illustrated by C. S Reinhart) Albert Rhodes 8

Andre, the Artist-Soldier Charles Barnard 233

Annetta Plummer's Diary Abby Morton Diaz 55S

April Snow. Poem Virginia F. Townsend . . . 3S1

Around the World on a Telegraph Wire. Poem. (Illus. by L. Hopkins). E. L. Bynner 680

Artist-Soldier, The Charles Barnard ... 233

Autumn Poetry. (Illustrated) Lucy Larcom 796

Backus, My Friend Colonel. A Talk with Big Boys J. G. Holland ... 4S3

Bear, The Good-natured. (Illustrated by W. L. Sheppard) Isabella Valancy Crawford . 135

Bees that Went to the Sky, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Joel Stacy 13

Benita. Poem. (Illustrated) Mary E. Bradley 22

Birds, Something about. (Illustrated) Prof. W. K. Brooks 394

Birds in the Spring. ( Illustrated) Prof. W. K. Brooks 555

Birds Improve in Nest-Building, How. (Illustrated by James C. Beard ).. Prof. W. A'. Brooks 686

Blue-Coat Boy, The. (Illustrated by C. S. Reinhart) "Aunt Fanny" 662

Blue-Coat Girl, Extracts Irora the Journal of a. (Illus. by C. S. Reinhart). Laura W. Johnson 327

Bo-Peep. Verses E. Norman Gunnison .... 823

Borrowing a Grandmother. (Illus. by Frank Beard and Sol. Eytinge, Jr) . .Helen Angell Goodwin 3S

Boston Girl of 1776, A Little Mrs. E. G. Carter u

Bouche de Mademoiselle Louise, La. French Story (or Translation F. Dupin Je Saint-Andre. . 503

Boy's Life on a Man-of-War, A. (Illustrated) Chaplain LI. H. Clark 616

Boys of my Boyhood, The . William Cullen Bryant. . . 99

Brave Little Florencia. (Illustrated by W. H. Gibson) Newton Perkins 339

Budge's Story of the Centennial Author of "Helen's Babies." 164

Buttercup, A. Poem K. C 718

Canaries, A Talk about. ( Illustrated) Ernest Ingersoll 247

Car-Horses at Home. ( Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) Charles Barnard 91

Carlo and the Milk-Pan. Pictures drawn by F. Opper 38

Caspar Deane and the Cinnamon. (Illustrated by W. L. Sheppard) C. D. Clark 3S2

CATHERN : A Sequel to the "Ash-Girl." (Illustrated) Lucy G. Morse 302

Cats, Turning into. (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) Frances Lee 392

Caught by the Snow. (Illustrated by Thomas Moran) William H. Rideing. ...... 792

Cecile et Lulu. French Story for Translation. (Illustrated) A. A. Chapman 369

Cecile and Lulu. Translation of French Story 4. A. Chapman 531

Centennial, Budge's Story of the Author of "Helen's Babies" 164

Centennial Pen-Wiper, A. ( Illustrated) Mrs. M. H. Jaquith 50

Central Park, Young Folks' Fun in. (Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) Charles Barnard 705

Century Ago, A, (Illustrated) Noah Brooks S02

Child-Bishops of Salisbury, St. Nicholas' Day and the (Illus. by Sol. Eylmge)MHviite Egleston 532

Christmas Eve, Leon Maturin's. ( Illustrated) C. F. Jackson 123

Christmas Song, A Hatlie S. Russell 90

~Christmas-tide, Not Only in the. Verse. ( Illustrated) Baste Hilt 447

y< [Reus in Brittany, An American. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) William M. F. Round.... 727

JbCi.lvkr Joe. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) Henry L. Williams 236

B»Clock in the Sky at Night, A. (Illustrated by Author) Richard A. Proctor 120

"Cluck-a-Luck's Strange Children. (Illustrated by F. S. Church) E. Muller 77

IV CONTENTS.

PAGE.

Complaint of the Stockings, The. Poem Sidney Day re 1 18

Coral-Fisher AND HIS Wife, The. (Illustrated) Kate Brownlee Horton 641

Cows with Red Ears, Four Hundred White Amanda B. Harris 466

Curious Customs of Easter. (Illustrated by G. F. Barnes) Olive Thome 406

Daylight Burglary, Another. Picture drawn by F. Opper 214

Doll, The True Story of a ■ Rebecca Harding Davis. . . . 138

Doves, The Flock of. (Illustrated by Addie Ledyard) Celia Thaxter 98

Dowager, The Discontented. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) E. L. B 4S0

Drummer Fritz, and His Exploits. (Illustrated by the Author) Howard Pyle 718

Drumming, How I Went a- (Illustrated by James C. Beard) Frank R. Stockton 739

Dumb Oratok. Poem. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) C. P. Cranch 627

Easter, Curious Customs of. (Illustrated by G. F. Barnes) Olive Thome 409

Easter Morning. Tablet 364

Egyptian, The Naughty Little. Verses. (Illustrated) Joel Stacy 560

Esther, The Flower-Girl. (Illustrated) Emily H. Leland 280

Faces of Fishes, The. (Illustrated) Herbert E. Copeland 282

Fairies, A Dream About H. H 649

Fair-Minded Men who Walked to Donahan, The. Verses. (Illustrated) Joel Stacy 725

Fairy Story, Making a. (Illustrated by Alfred Fredericks) Julius A. Truesdcll 428

Far Away. Poem Bessie Hill 37

Festina Lente, A Talk with Boys Thomas Hughes 245

First Time, The. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) Saxe Holm . . 473

Fishers, The Three. Poem. (Illustrated by J. A. Mitchell) Laura E. Richards 554

Flock of Doves, The. (Illustrated by Addie Ledyard) Celia Thaxter 98

Florencia, Brave Little. (Illustrated by W. H. Gibson) Newton Perkins 339

Florida Fishers. (Illustrated) Mrs. Mary Treat 490

Flowers in Winter. (Illustrated) S. C 42

FLUFFY AND Snuffy. Poem. (Illustrated by Addie Ledyard) Carrie W. Thompson 456

Fourth Month Dunce. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) H. M. M. 371

Fox and the Tablet, The. (Illustrated by the Author) H. P 381

Fox, The Crafty. (Illustrated by the Author) Howard Pyle 261

Frank. (Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) Frances E. Beale 513

French Story-Tellers, Two. (Illustrated) Donald C. Mitchell 780

Furrow,. The Little Brown Seed in the. Poem Ida W. Bcnham 612

General's Ride, Curious End of the. (Illustrated) John Lewees 434

George the Third. (Illustrated) Noah Brooks 623

" God Knows." Poem Julia C. R. Dorr 403

Going a-Gypsying. (Illustrated) John H. Peel 620

Going to the Sea-Shore. Poem. (Illustrated Border) E. F. N 587

Golden Fish of Owari Castle, The. (Illustrated by a Japanese Artist) .. William E. Griffis 324

Gone Astray. (Illustrated by Alfred Fredericks) George MacDonald 713, 770

Good Times. Pictures drawn by "Sphinx " 24

Good-Will. Talk with Boys J. T. Trowbridge 389

Granny's Story. Poem .... Emily Huntington Miller. . 10

Grass. Poem Edgar Fawcett 483

Great-Grandfather's Books and Pictures. (Fac-simile illustrations )

r *i_ *t tt 1 1 t> ■ . , ( Horace E. Scudder 192

from the New England Primer, etc.) > '

Greedy, The Kingdom of the. (Illustrated) Translated by Laura IV. Johnson 1, 112

Green House with Gold Nails, The. (Illustrated by R. Riordan) Mrs. J. P. Ballard 525

Greyhound's Warning, The Hezekiah Butterworth 189

Gunpowder. (Illustrated) J. A. Judson 580

" Happy New Year! " Picture 191

Happy Day. Picture drawn by Mary A. Lathbury 644

Hans Gottenlieb, the Fiddler. (Illustrated by the Author) Howard Pyle 400

Hare and Hounds. (Illustrated) Kate Brawnlee Horton 789

Haroun Al Raschid. Poem Henry IV. Longfellow 792

Hevi. (Illustrated) Frank R. Stockton 589

CONTENTS.

PAGE.

H. H., A Parable by ' //. // 34

HlPPETY Hop, The Sad Story of. Poem. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) Samuel C. Wilson ,.. 489

Hippopotamus, The Revenge of the Little. (Illustrated) Park Benjamin 816

His Own Master. (Illustrated by C. S. Reinhart) J. T. Trowbridge, 81, 171, 26S,

332, 4co, 442, 542, 593, 666, 746, S07

"Hollenberry " Cup, The. (Illustrated by R. Riordan) Mrs. J. P. Ballard 457

Horse Hotel, The. (Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) C/iarles Barnard 91

House ok Santa Claus, The. (Illustrated) Edward Eggles/on 131

Ice, On the. (Illustrated by J. E. Kelly), Irwin Russell 315

Illuminated Texts. (Illustrated Title) Susan Coolidge 379

Indian Girl and Her Messenger-Bird, The. (Illustrated by Addie Ledyard) . George W. Ranch. 244

Italian Babies. (Illustrated) E. D. Southwick S06

IVANHOE. (Illustrated) Donald G. Mitchell 44S

Jack Frost, A Visit from. Picture drawn by M Wool/. 318

Jim and the Water-Melon. Picture drawn by Frank Beard 280

Jingles 188, 438, 527, 651, 745, 773

John's First Party Charles Dudley II 'arncr . . 673

JUPITER, The Giant Planet. (Illustrated by Author) Richard A. Proctor 628

Karen and Her Baby, Little. (Illustrated) S. C. W 297

KATINKA. (Illustrated) Kate Brownlee Horton 157

Katy Delay, Poor. Poem Maria W. Jones 351

Kingdom of the Greedy, The. (Illustrated.) Translated by Laura W.Johnson I, 112

King Lonesome. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) Lucy Larcoin 178

King Trisanku. Poem Henry W. Longfellow 649

Labrador, A Summer Ride in. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) Mrs. C. E. Groser 6S9

Lead-Pencils, All About lames W. Preston 14

Leap-Year. Picture drawn by "Sphinx " 14

Lecture-Bureau, Trotty's Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. . . . 454

Letter to a Young Naturalist, A. . . William Howitt 154

Letter to Letter Writers, A Susan A. Brown 310

Letter, Our. (Illustration: Fac-Simile of a Letter from Charles Dickens). M. F. Armstrong 43S

Letters at School, The. Poem. (Illustrated) M. M. D 10S

Light-House, Nellie in the. (Illustrated) Susan Archer Weiss 577

LINCOLN, A Reminiscence of Abraham. (Illustrated by C. S. Reinhart) Albert Rhodes 8

Listening. Poem. (I.lustrated by Thomas Moran) Mary N. Prescott 19

Little Boston Girl of i 776, A Mrs. E. G. Carter 11

Little Brown Seed in the Furrow, The. Poem Ida W. Benham 612

Little Girl Who Grew Smaller, The. (Illustrated) Emily H. Leland 773

Little Karen and Her Baby. (Illustrated) S. C. W 297

Little Tommy Tucker. Picture drawn by Miss Florence Scanne/l. . . 466

Little Travelers. (Illustrated by "Sphinx.") Harriet M. Miller 1S1

Lonesome, King. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) Lucy Larcom 178

"Look! Look! " Picture drawn by J. W. Champney 485

LOUISE, La Bouche de Mademoiselle. French Story for Translation F. Dupin de Saint-Andre . . 503

Luck and Labor. Poem Mrs. Caroline A. Soule . . . 301

Mabel AND I. ( Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge ) . . . Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen . . . 206

Making Maple Sugar. (Illustrated by Alfred Kappes) Ruth Kenyan 300

Man-OF-War, A Boy's Life on a. (Illustrated) Chaplain H. H. Clark 616

March. Poem M. M. II. Conway 341

Marjorie. Poem Celia Thaxter 491

MICE AND their Ways, Wild. (Illustrated by R. Riordan) Ernest Ingersoll . . . 534, 600

Minstrels, The Old-Time. (Illustrated) E. B. M 214

Minuet, The. Poem Mary Mapes Dodge 153

Miss Louise's Mouth. Translation of French Story on page 503 A. R. T 636

Modern and Mediaeval Ballad of Mary Jane. (Illus. by L. Hopkins). .Henry Baldwin 202

Moss-Pictures. A New Style of Fancy Work J. M. B 828

Mother. Poem. (Illustrated by Frontispiece) I/. M. D 769

VI CONTENTS.

PAGE.

Mother in the Desert, The. (Illustrated) Susan Coolidge 522

Mother Goose Operetta G. B. Bartlett 226

Mr. Tompkins Laugh, What Made Abby Morton Diaz .... 617

Mr. Tompkins' Small Story Abby Morton Diaz 645

My Friend Colonel Backus. A Talk with Big Boys J. G. Holland 483

Naturalist, A Letter to a Young William Hounlt 154

Naughty Little Egyptian, The. Verses. (Illustrated) Joel Stacy 560

Nellik in the Light-House. (Illustrated) Susan Archer Weiss 577

New-Year's Day, Marie's. (Illustrated) G. W. B 218

No Pocket. (Illustrated) Sarah Winter Kellogg 75

"Not only in the Christmas-tide." Verse. (Illustrated) Bessie Hill 447

Now It 's Your Turn. Picture 788

"Oh, The Dutch Companie is the Best Companie ! " Picture drawn by. "Sphinx " S23

Opening the Lily. Picture drawn by Walter Satterlee 648

Open Secret, An. Poem. (Illustrated by the Author) Mary A. Lathbnry 437

Oriental Sports that I Saw, Some. (Illustrated by a Siamese Artist) .. Fanny Roper Feua 'ge 127

Our Master. Picture drawn by Addle Ledyard 745

Owari Castle, The Golden Fish of. (Illustrated by a Japanese Artist) William E. Griffis 324

Owl that Stared, The. (Illustrated by C S. Reinhart) Rose Hawthorne Lathrop .. . 16

Panchy. ( Illustrated by F. P. Lathrop) Mrs. F. M. Lathrop 737

Parable, A H. H 34

Partners. (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) Emily Huntington Miller. . 45

Party, John's First Charles Dudley Warner. . . . 673

Party, The First. Poem Josephine Bollard 254

Pattikin's House. (Illustrated by Jessie Curtis, Mary A. Hallock, J. E. \ Joy Allison, 255, 347, 373, 492,

Kelly, and Thomas Moran ) S 517

Peterkins at the Centennial. The Lucrelia P. Hale 275

Peterkin's Tea Party, Mrs Lucretia P. Hale 539

Peterkins Gelebrate-the Fourth of July, The. (Illustrated by L. ) , ,. „ „, g

Hopkins) >

Peterkins' Christmas-Tree, The Lucretia P. Hale . ... 139

Peter's Rabbit-Hunt. (Illustrated) Paul Fort 752

" Please Don't Touch Me." Picture 805

Poems and Carols of Winter. (Illustrated) Lucy Larcom 65

" Polly's Christmas Society," Doings of the. (Illustrated) Olive Thome 109

Poor Katy Delay. Poem Maria W. Jones 35 1

Poppets. (Illustrated) Amalie La Forge 184

Proverb, The Story of a. ( Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) Sidney Lamer 468

Q AND U. Verses. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) J. P. Ballard 498

Queen and Not a Queen, A. (Illustrated) Susan Coolidge 16

Rabbit-Hunt, Peter's. (Illustrated) Paul Fort .... 752

Rain, Hail, Snow. Verse L. T. C •. . . 279

Ready for a Second Course. Picture drawn by J. IT. Champney ... 660

Red Riding-Hood. Poem John Grecnleaf Whittier. . . 425

Riddle, A. Verse J. S 141

Ride, The Curious End of the General's. (Illustrated) John Lewees 434

Robbie Talks Olive Thome 726

Robin's Rain-Song. Poem. (Illustrated by W. H. Gibson) Celia Thaxter 661

Roses. Poem Edgar Fawcett 539

Sam Clemson, The Second Frank R. Stockton 361

Sandhopper Jig, The. Poem. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) Margaret Eytinge 235

Santa Claus, The House of. (Illustrated) Edward Eggleston 131

School-Luncheons The " Little Schoolwa'am," 755

Sea- FOAM. Poem. (Illustrated by the Author) Mary A. Lathbnry 33

Sea-Shore, Going to the. Poem. (Illustrated Border) E. F. A 7 5S7

Secret Door, The. (Illustrated by Mary A. Hallock) . .Susan Coolidge 103

Seven Ages, The. Poem. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins). . . M. B. Whiting . 312

CONTENTS. Vll

> Melville Egleston 532

PAGE.

"Seventy-seven." Verses Mary Mapes Dodge 183

Sleeping Courier, The. (Illustrated) Frank R. Stockton 426

SLIDE, A Jolly. Picture 274

Songs of Spring. (Illus by Sol. Eytinge, Walter Satterlee and Fidelia Bridges). Lucy Larcom 3 D 5> 459

SPRAY. (Illustrated by J. F. Runge, from painting by J. H. Beard) J. Reed Sever 552

Spring-board, The. Picture drawn by F, Opper 13S

Spring Work. Picture drawn by Mary A. Lathbury 346

Stars and Daisies. Verses Louis Munson 247

Stars in January \ / 166

Stars in February (illustrated by the Au- \ ( 2 °3

Stars in March J thor, with maps of the I \ 342

Stars IN April I Northern and South- ( V ...... 385

Stars in May , ern skies for each ) Richard A. Proctor. ( 498

Stars in June / mont h, and with dia- ( j 5°2

Stars in July I grams of the constel- \ j 6l 3

Stars in August \ l a tions. I I 6 7 6

Stars in September I / I 730

Stars in October, November and December. ., \ 818

St. Nicholas' Day, and the Child-Bishops of Salisbury. (Illustrated

by Sol. Eytinge)

Stockings, The Complaint of the. Poem Sidney Day re 118

Story of a Proverb, The. (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) Sidney Lanier 468

Summer Ride in Labrador, A. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) Mrs. C. E. Groser 6S9

Sunday Baby, The. Poem Alice Williams 44

" Sun Smiled, And the " Margaret Eytinge 588

Swimming, A Talk About. (Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) Sanford B. Hunt, . . . 607

"Swooping Eagle's" First Exploit, The. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) ..Sarah Winter Kellogg. . 682

Tableaux-Vivants, New Parlor G. B. Bartlett 508

"Tell Me, Daisy." Verses. (Illustrated by " Sphinx ") ' Bessie Hill 516

"There 's a Ship on the Sea." Verse. (Illustrated by Thomas Moran) Joel Stacy 773

Thistle-Puffs. ( Illustrated) Ina Carol 735

Tinsie's Conclusion. (Illustrated by Addie Ledyard) George Klingle 48

"TOLERBUL" Bad Boy, Story of a. (Illustrated) Sarah Winter Kellogg 25

Tommy's Cousins. (Illustrated by F. S. Church) E.Mu/ler 528

Tragedy. Poem Celia Thaxter 275

Trisanku, King. Poem Henry W. Longfellow 649

Trotty's Lecture Bureau Elizabeth Stuart Phelps . 454

Turning into Cats. (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) Frances Lee 392

Turtle Taught a Lesson, How a. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins and J ^ <-■ Tluiver 6 6

" Sphinx " '

Twilight Dance, A. Picture 679

Two Dorothys, The. (Illustrated by C S. Reinhart) C. F. Jackson . 197

Two French Story-Tellers. (Illustrated) Donald G. Mitchell 7S0

Two Wishes, The. (Illustrated) Susan Coolidge 319

Valentine, A. Poem. (Illustrated) 4. E. C 267

Valentine, The. Picture drawn by "Sphinx " 243

Village of Wild Beasts, A. (Illustrated) Frank R. Stockton 651

Warning, The Greyhound's Hezekiah Butterworth . . . 189

What Made Mr. Tompkins Laugh Abby Morton Diaz 617

Which Had It ? (Illustrated by J. W. Champney) Sarah Winter Kellogg ... 7S3

Whittington Listening to the Bow Bells of London. Picture drawn by .JiLiss £. M. S. Scannel! . . . 588

Why Nellie was not Popular. (Illustrated) Constance Marion 404

Wild Mice and their Ways. (Illustrated by R. Riordan) Ernest Ingersoll 534, 600

Winter, Poems and Carols of. ( Illustrated) Lucy Larcom 65

Wishes, The two. ( Illustrated) Susan Coolidge. ... 319

Worthy Poor, The. Verses. (Illustrated by James C Beard) M. M. D 502

Young Folks' Fun in Central Park. (Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) . Charles Barnard 705

Vlll CONTENTS.

DEPARTMENTS.

Jack-in-the-Pulpit.

Introduction — A Balloon Inventor — Floating Gardens — Costly Clothes — Eating Nails — The Pet of the
Regiment (illustrated) — Snakes with Spectacles — Tip-Top Shoes, 52; Merry Christmas — A Big Plum-
Pudding — The Christmas Putz at Bethlehem — East or West ? — One Good Turn Deserves Another — A Little
Hollander's Bird-Cage (illustrated) — The Safety Lamp, 142; A New Year Wish — Strange Scent-Bags —
Feed the Birds — Five"Thats" — An Esquimaux House or Hut — Skipping-Ropes in Glasgow (illustrated —
What Made Them So? — A Fern that Looks Like a Lamb — Bismarck's Dog — The Biggest Flower — A Doll
for a Sign, 220; Were- Wolves — A Friend to the Birds — Supposing a Case — The Bee that Saved a Kingdom
— New- York Street Lamps in 1697 and 1876 (illustrated) — A True Mule Story — Comfort for Short Folks,
288; Crystallized Horses — A Fresh-Water Whale — School Luncheons — A Real Baby-House (illustrated) —
A Seed in the Wool — Cinderella's Slipper — The Oldest Organ in the Country, 354; Short Days and the
Birds — A Paper-making Spider — An Ape's Death — A Good "Blowing-Up" — How to Make Butter
— " The Churn "(illustration) — Royal, but never a King — A New Way of Comforting — Jack-Stones — An Old
Flame, 418; Robins in the Tree-top — How a Letter Won a Crown — Oil on the Troubled Waters — The
Longest Days — A House-Building Fish — The Fish that Went Ashore (illustrated) — Route du Roi, 506 ;
June Gladness — The Deacon's Conundrum — Astragaloi — Bad News for the Children — A Stocking Revival
— A Circular Boat (illustrated) — School-Luncheons, 570; Fourlh of July and the Birds — An Underground
Forest — July Events — The Cost of Wet Feet — Four-Leaved Clovers — Fire-Crackers — Sparrows and
Horses (illustrated) — All the Alphabet — Can a Dog Think? — Blacksmiths in Africa, 634; Ice — Pressing
Flowers — Discontent — Robin Hood Clubs — A Boy with His Eyes Open — The Fiery Tears of St. Law-
rence — Which are the Swimmers? — Seventeen-Year Locusts (illustrated), 698; The Little Schoolma'am
and School Luncheons — Flower Dollies — Is the Calla a Lily? — Electric Candles — Grass Shoes — " Not in "
to Trouble — One of Jack's Pets (illustrated), 762; About Moss Pictures — How Not to Do It — Turkey and
Roses — Dosing an Elephant — Home-Made Targets — Deacon Green's Sermon on Amiability (illustration) —
A Needle-Throwing Weapon, 826.

For Very Little Folks. (Illustrated.)

A True Story — Jingles — The Wonderful Puppies — Children of the Week, 56; The Robin's Visit — What
My Little Brother Thinks, 144; The Frogs' Picnic — Broken Toys, 222; The Adopted Chicken — Two
Kittens — The Naughty Doll, 284 ; Little Tradja of Norway — The Sick Frog, 352; The Lion, 416; The
Life of a Little Green Frog, 504; Tony's Letter, 568; Jamie's Rabbits, 632; Little Peery, 696 ; One,
Two, Three (illustrated by Mary Wyman Wallace) — Good Friends, 760 ; What the Parrot Taught the
Little Girl(illustrated by James C. Beard), 824.

Young Contributors' Department.

Letter from Winkie West — My Squirrel — Nothing to Do — The Youth and the North Wind, 59 ; A Queer
Way of Writing (illustrated) — On the Closing of the Centennial — Tottie's Calendar (illustrated), 227;
Pansy's Lovers — Some California Scenes — "The Youthful Rubens Drawing Flies" (picture), 356; How
to Make a Bird-House (illustrated), 420; The Deserted House — A Fairy Story— "The Peterkins at the
Centennial" (picture), 572 ; Pompeii — Barred In — The Woodpecker, 764.

Frontispieces.

The King Orders a Tart as big as the Capitol, I; The Heart of Winter, 65; The Minuet, 153;
Andre\ the Artist-Soldier, 233 ; Little Karen's Friends, 297 ; Aunt Carrie Winds the Clock, 361 ; As
Good as a Mother, 425; A June Morning, 513; Nellie in the Light-House, 577; The Coral-Fisher's
Wife, 641; "Hurrah for the Coach I " 705; "Wait till we get there, Darling!" 769.

Little Housekeeper's Page.

Wine or Cider Jelly, Jam Marion Harland 55

Letter-Box 60, 149, 228, 292, 357, 421, 50S, 572, 636, 700, 765, S28

Riddle-Box 62,150,230,294,359,423,510,575,639,703,767,831

Our Music Page.

" Dickon has a boat," 54 ; Christmas Carol, 148 ; Harum Scarum, 290.

^g^

THE KING ORDERS A TART AS BIG AS THE CAPITOL.

(See "The Kingdom of the Greedy.")

ST. NICHOLAS.

Vol. IV.

NOVEMBER, 1876

No. 1.

THE KINGDOM OF THE GREEDY.

(Bv P. J. Stahl.)

Translated by Laura W. Johnson.

Part I.

THE country of the Greedy, well known in his'
tory, was ruled by a king who had much trouble.
His subjects were well-behaved, but they had one
sad fault — they were too fond of pies and tarts. It
was as disagreeable to them to swallow a spoonful
of soup as if it were so much sea-water, and it
would take a policeman to make them open their
mouths for a bit of meat, either boiled or roasted.
This deplorable taste made the fortunes of the
pastry-cooks, but also of the apothecaries. Families
ruined themselves in pills and powders ; camomile,
rhubarb, and peppermint trebled in price, as well
as other disagreeable remedies, such as castor — ,
which I will not name.

The King of the Greedy sought long for the
means of correcting this fatal passion for sweets,
but even the faculty were puzzled.

" Your Majesty," said the great Court doctor,
Olibriers, at his last audience, "your people look
like putty ! They are incurable ; their senseless
love for good eating will bring them all to the
grave."

This view of things did not suit the King. He
was wise, and saw very plainly that a monarch
without subjects would be but a sorry king.

Happily, after this utter failure of the doctors,
there came into the mind of His Majesty a first-
class idea. He telegraphed for Mother Mitchel,
the most celebrated of all pastry-cooks. . Mother
Mitchel soon arrived, with her black cat Fanfre-
luche who accompanied her everywhere. He was
an incomparable cat. He had not his equal as an
adviser and a taster of tarts.

Mother Mitchel having respectfully inquired what
she and her cat could do for His Majesty, the King
demanded of the astonished pastry-cook a tart as
big as the Capitol — bigger even, if possible, but no
smaller ! When the King uttered this astounding
order, deep emotion was shown by the chamber-
lains, the pages and lackeys. Nothing but the
respect due to his presence prevented them from
crying " Long live your Majesty ! " in his very ears.
But the King had seen enough of the enthusiasm
of the populace, and did not allow such sounds in
the recesses of his palace.

The King gave Mother Mitchel one month to
carry out his gigantic project. " It is enough," she
proudly replied, brandishing her crutch. Then,
taking leave of the King, she and her cat set out
for their home.

On the way, Mother Mitchel arranged in her
head the plan of the monument which was to
immortalize her, and considered the means of exe-
cuting it. As to its form and size, it was to be as
exact a copy of the Capitol as possible, since the
King had willed it ; but its outside crust should
have a beauty all its own. The dome must be
adorned with sugar-plums of all colors, and sur-
mounted by a splendid crown of macaroons, spun
sugar chocolate, and candied fruits. It was no
small affair.

Mother Mitchel did not like to lose her time.
Her plan of battle once formed, she recruited on
her way all the little pastry-cooks of the country,
as well as all the tiny six-year-olds who had a sin-
cere love for the noble callings of scullion and
apprentice. There were plenty of these, as you

Vol. IV.— 1.

[Copyright, 1876, by Scribner & Co.]

THE KINGDOM OF THE GREEDY.

[November,

work, and took time ; but Mother Mitchel was un-
tiring, and her cat also, for while the operation
lasted he sat on the roof, watching. It is only just f
to say that the millers of the Greedy Kingdom
brought flour, not only faultless, but of full weight.
They knew that Mother Mitchel was not joking
■when she said that others must be as exact with
her as she was with them. Perhaps also they were
a little afraid of the cat, whose great green eyes
were always shining upon them like two round
lamps, and never lost sight of them for one mo-
ment.

All the farmers' wives arrived in turn, with
baskets of eggs upon their heads. They did not
load their donkeys with them, for fear that in jog-
ging along they would become omelettes on the
way. Mother Mitchel received them with her usual
gravity. She had the patience to look through
every egg to see if it were fresh.

She did not wish to run the risk of having young
chickens in a tart that was destined for those who
could not bear the taste of any meat, however ten-
der and delicate. The number of eggs was com-
plete, and again Mother Mitchel and her cat had
nothing to complain of. This Greedy nation,
though carried away by love of good eating, was
strictly honest. It must be said, that where nations
are patriotic, desire for the common good makes
them unselfish. Mother Mitchel's tart was to be
the glory of the country, and each one was proud
to contribute to such a great work.

And now the milkmaids, with their pots and
pails of milk, and the butter-makers with their
baskets filled with the rich yellow pats of butter,
filed in long procession to the right and left of the
cabin of Mother Mitchel. There was no need for
her to examine so carefully the butter and the milk.
She had such a delicate nose, that if there had
been a single pat of ancient butter or a pail of sour
milk, she would have pounced upon it instantly.
But all was perfectly fresh. In that golden age
they did not understand the art, now so well known,
of making milk out of flour and water. Real milk
was necessary to make cheese-cakes and ice-cream
and other delicious confections much adored in the
Greedy Kingdom. If any one had made such a
despicable discovery, he would have been chased
from the country as a public nuisance.

Then came the grocers, with their aprons of
coffee bags, and with the jolly, mischievous faces
the rogues always have. Each one clasped to his
heart a sugar-loaf nearly as large as himself, whose
summit, without its paper cap, looked like new-
fallen snow upon a pyramid. Mother Mitchel, with
her crutch for a baton, saw them all placed in her
store-rooms upon shelves put up for the purpose.
She had to be very strict, for some of the little

may suppose, in the country of the Greedy ; Mother
Mitchel had her pick of them.

Mother Mitchel, with the help of her crutch, and
of Fanfreluche, who miaowed loud enough to be
heard twenty miles off, called upon all the millers
of the land, and commanded them to bring together
at a certain time as many sacks of fine flour as they
could grind in a week. There were only wind-mills
in that country ; you may easily believe how they
all began to go. B-r-r-r-r-r ! what a noise they
made ! The clatter was so great that all the birds
flew away to other climes, and even the clouds fled
from the sky.

At the call of Mother Mitchel, all the farmers'
wives were set to work ; they rushed to the hen-
coops to collect the seven thousand fresh eggs that
Mother Mitchel wanted for her great edifice. Deep
was the emotion of the fowls. The hens were in-
consolable, and the unhappy creatures mourned
upon the palings for the loss of all their hopes.

The milkmaids were busy from morning till
night in milking the cows. Mother Mitchel must
have twenty thousand pails of milk. All the little
calves were put on half-rations. This great work
was nothing to them, and they complained pitifully
to their mothers. Many of the cows protested with
energy against this unreasonable tax, which made
their young families so uncomfortable. There were
pails upset, and even some milkmaids went head
over heels. But these little accidents did not chill
the enthusiasm of the laborers.

And now Mother Mitchel called for a thousand
pounds of the best butter. All the churns for
twenty miles around began to work in the most
lively manner. Their dashers dashed without ceas-
ing, keeping perfect time. The butter was tasted,
rolled into pats, wrapped up, and put into baskets.
Such energy had never been known before.

Mother Mitchel passed for a sorceress. It was all
because of her cat Fanfreluche, with whom she
had mysterious doings and pantomimes, and with
whom she talked in her inspired moments, as if he
were a real person. Certainly, since the famous
"Puss in Boots," there had never been an animal
so extraordinary ; and credulous folks suspected
him of being a magician. Some curious people
had the courage to ask Fanfreluche if this were
true ; but he had replied by bristling, and showing
his teeth and claws so fiercely, that the conversa-
tion had ended there. Sorceress or not, Mother
Mitchel was always obeyed. No one else was ever
served so punctually.

On the ap'pointed day, all the millers arrived with
their asses trotting in single file, each laden with a
great sack of flour. Mother Mitchel, after having
examined the quality of the flour, had every sack
accuratelv weighed. This was head work and hard

,8 7 6.]

THE KINGDOM OF THE GREEDY.

fellows could hardly part from their merchandise,
and many were indiscreet with their tongues behind
their great mountains of sugar. If they had been
let alone, they would never have stopped till the
sugar was all gone. But they had not thought of
the implacable eye of old Fanfreluche, who, posted
upon a water-spout, took note of all their misdeeds.

^0.^p-

BRINGING THE MILK AND THE BUTTER.

From another quarter came a whole army of
country people, rolling wheelbarrows and carry-
ing huge baskets, all filled with cherries, plums,
peaches, apples, and pears. AH these fruits were
so fresh, in such perfect condition, with their fair
shining skins, that they looked like wax or painted
marble, but their delicious perfume proved that
they were real. Some little people, hidden in the

corners, took pains to find this out. Between our-
selves, Mother Mitchel made believe not to see
them, and took the precaution of holding Fanfre-
luche in her arms so that he could not spring upon
them. The fruits were all put into bins, each kind
by itself. And now the preparations were finished.
There was no time to lose before setting to work.
The spot which Mother Mitchel
had chosen for her great edi-
fice, was a pretty hill on which
a plateau formed a splendid
site. This hill commanded
the capital city, built upon the
slope of another hill close by.
After having beaten down the
earth till it was as smooth as a
floor, they spread over it loads
of bread-crumbs, brought from
the baker's, and leveled it with
rake and spade, as we do gravel
in our garden walks. Little
birds, as greedy as themselves,
came in flocks to the feast, but
they might eat as they liked,
it would never be missed, so
thick was the carpet. It was
a great chance for the bold
little things.

All the ingredients for the
tart were now ready. Upon
order of Mother Mitchel they
began to peel the apples and
pears and to take out the pips.
The weather was so pleasant
that the girls sat out-of-doors,
upon the ground, in long rows.
The sun looked down upon
them with a merry face. Each
of the little workers had a big
earthen pan, and peeled in-
cessantly the apples which the
boys brought them. When
the pans were full, they were
carried away and others were
brought. They had also to
carry away the peels, or the
girls would have been buried
in them. Never was there
such a peeling before.
Not far away, the children were stoning the
plums, cherries and peaches. This work being the
easiest, was given to the youngest and most inex-
perienced hands, which were all first carefully
washed, for Mother Mitchel, though not very par-
ticular about her own toilet, was very neat in her
cooking. The school-house, long unused (for in
the country of the Greedy they had forgotten every-

THE KINGDOM OF THE GREEDY.

[November,

BREAKING AND GRATING THE SUGAR.

thing), was arranged for this second class of work- plum-stones ! But no one risked it. Fanfreluche

ers, and the cat was their inspector. He walked was not to be trifled with.

round and round, growling if he saw the fruit In those days, powdered sugar had not been in-
popping into any of the little mouths. If they vented, and to grate it all was no small affair. It
had dared, how they would have pelted him with was the work that the grocers used to dislike most;

1876.1

THE KINGDOM OF THE GREEDY.

KNEADING THE BREAD.

both lungs and arms were soon tired. But Mother grated them till they were too small to hold. The

Mitchel was there to sustain them with her une- bits were put into baskets to be pounded. One

qualed energy. She chose the laborers from the would never have expected to find all the thousand

most robust of the boys. With mallet and knife pounds of sugar again. But a new miracle was

she broke the cones into round pieces, and they wrought by Mother Mitchel. It was all there !

THE KINGDOM OF THE GREEDY.

[November,

It was then the turn of the ambitious scullions to
enter the lists, and break the seven thousand eggs
for Mother Mitchel. It was not hard to break them
— any fool could do that ; but to separate adroitly
the yolks and the whites demands some talent, and,
above all, great care. We dare not say that there
were no accidents here, no eggs too well scrambled,
no baskets upset. But the ex-
perience of Mother Mitchel
had counted upon such things,
and it may truly be said that
there never were so many
eggs broken at once, or ever
could be again. To make an
omelette of them would have
taken a saucepan as large as
a skating pond, and the fat-
test cook that ever lived could
not hold the handle of such a
saucepan.

But this was not all. Now
that the yolks and whites
were once divided, they must
each be beaten separately in
wooden bowls, to give them
the necessary lightness. The
egg-beaters were marshaled
into two brigades, the yellow
and the white. Every one
preferred the white, for it was
much more amusing to make
those snowy masses that rose
up so high, than to beat the
yolks, which knew no better
than to mix together like so
much sauce. Mother Mitchel,
with her usual wisdom, had
avoided this difficulty by cast-
ing lots. Thus, those who
were not on the white side
had no reason to complain
of oppression. And truly,
when all was done, the whites
and the yellows were equally
tired. All had cramps in
their hands.

Now began the real labor
of Mother Mitchel. Till now,
she had been the commander-
in-chief — the head only ; now, she put her own
finger in the pie. First, she had to make sweet-
meats and jam, out of all the immense quantity
of fruit she had stored. For this, as she could
only do one kind at a time, she had ten kettles,
each as big as a dinner-table. During forty-eight
hours the cooking went on ; a dozen scullions blew
the fire and put on the fuel. Mother Mitchel,

with a spoon that four modern cooks could hardly
lift, never ceased stirring and trying the boiling
fruit. Three expert tasters, chosen from the most
dainty, had orders to report progress every half
hour.

It is unnecessary to state that all the sweetmeats
were perfectly successful, or that they were of

MOTHER MITCHEL TASTES THE SWEETMEATS.

exquisite consistency, color, and perfume. With
Mother Mitchel there was no such word as fail.
When each kind of sweetmeat was finished, she
skimmed it, and put it away to cool in enormous
bowls before potting. She did not use for this the
usual little glass or earthen jars, but great stone
ones, like those in the " Forty Thieves." Not only
did these take less time to fill, but they were safe

1876.]

THE KINGDOM OF THE GREEDY.

from the children. The scum and the scrapings
were something, to be sure. But there was little
Toto, who thought this was not enough. He would
have jumped into one of the bowls, if they had not
held him.

Mother Mitchel, who thought of everything, had
ordered two hundred great kneading-troughs, wish-
ing that all the utensils of this great work should
be perfectly new. These two hundred troughs,
like her other materials, were all delivered punctu-
ally and in good order. The pastry-cooks rolled
up their sleeves, and began to knead the dough,
with cries of "Hi! hi!" that could be heard for
miles. It was odd to see this army of bakers in
serried ranks, all making the same gestures at
once, like well-disciplined soldiers, stooping and
rising together in time, so that a foreign embas-
sador wrote to his court, that he wished his people
could load and fire as well as these could knead.
Such praise, a people never forgets.

When each troughful of paste was approved, it
was molded with care into the form of bricks, and
with the aid of the engineer-in-chief, a young
genius who had gained the first prize in the school
of architecture, the majestic edifice was begun.
Mother Mitchel herself drew the plan ; in following
her directions, the young engineer showed himself
modest beyond all praise. He had the good sense
to understand that the architecture of tarts and
pies had rules of its own, and that therefore the
experience of Mother Mitchel was worth all the
scientific theories in the world.

The inside of the monument was divided into as
many compartments as there were kinds of fruits.
The walls were no less than four feet thick. When
they were finished, twenty-four ladders were set up,
and twenty-four experienced cooks ascended them.
These first-class artists were each of them armed
with an enormous cooking-spoon. Behind them,

on the lower rounds of the ladders, followed the
kitchen-boys, carrying on their heads pots and
pans, filled to the brim with jam and sweetmeats,
each sort ready to be poured into its destined com-
partment. This colossal labor was accomplished
in one day, and with wonderful exactness.

When the sweetmeats were used to the last drop,
when the great spoons had done all their work, the
twenty-four cooks descended to earth again. The
intrepid Mother Mitchel, who had never quitted the
spot, now ascended, followed by the noble Fanfre-
luche, and dipped her finger into each of the com-
partments, to assure herself that everything was
right. This part of her duty was not disagreeable,
and many of the scullions would have liked to per-
form it. But they might have lingered too long
over the enchanting task. As for Mother Mitchel,
she had been too well used to sweets to be excited
now. She only wished to do her duty and to
insure success.

All went on well. Mother Mitchel had given her
approbation. Nothing was needed now, but to
crown the sublime and delicious edifice, by placing
upon it the crust, that is, the roof or dome. This
delicate operation was confided to the engineer-in-
chief, who now showed his superior genius. The
dome, made beforehand of a single piece, was
raised in the air by means of twelve balloons, whose
force of ascension had been carefully calculated.
First it was directed, by ropes, exactly over the top
of the Tart ; then at the word of command it gently
descended upon the right spot. It was not a
quarter of an inch out of place. This was a great
triumph for Mother Mitchel and her able assistant.

But all was not over. How should this colossal
Tart be cooked ? That was the question that
agitated all the people of the Greedy country, who
came in crowds — lords and commons — to gaze at
the wonderful spectacle.

C To be continued.)

A REMINISCENCE OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

[November,

A REMINISCENCE OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
By Albert Rhodes.

There was an interesting though unimportant
scene in the life of Abraham Lincoln, of which I was
an eye-witness. It was on the occasion of the visit
of about twenty Indian chiefs to the Executive
Mansion, delegated by their respective tribes to
treat personally with the Great Father in the adjust-
ment of their affairs. They were habited in their
attire of feathers and paint, and each one was im-
pressed with the greatness of the occasion, the most
eventful, probably, of their lives. Their interpreter
placed them in the form of a crescent in the spacious
East room, on the floor, as they would have been
ill at ease on chairs. Thus they sat on the carpet
in decorous silence and waited the arrival of the
Chief Magistrate.

A number of people had been invited to be
present at the interview, among whom were officers
civil and military and foreign diplomates, accom-
panied by their wives in fashionable toilet. Sev-
eral of the latter, whose feet had not long left the
asphalt of the Boulevards of Paris, looked on the
copper-colored men — two or three using eye-glasses
— with peculiar interest ; the objects of it, however,
sat under the close observation with calm dignity,
as calm as if they had been in the habit of sitting
amidst the gaudy splendors of an East room, and
of being looked upon, every day, by distinguished
men and handsome women ; the absence of any
manifestation of surprise being a characteristic of
Indian nature.

At length Abraham Lincoln came into the room
and stood before the dusky crescent, while a group
of well-known men gathered behind him, to hear
what was about to take place, space being made
by ushers about the chiefs, the President and the
immediate group behind him. The interpreter
occupied a place near Lincoln, to turn the aborig-
inal language into English as it fell from the lip.
The ceremony began by a personal presentation of
each chief to the Great Father, each one going up
to the powerful white chief and shaking hands —
not extending the hand after the Caucasian man-
ner, but holding it high and dropping it softly
down into the Presidential palm. The names were
furnished as they came forward by the interpreter
— White Bear, Big Wolf, Red Fox, and so on.

The face of Lincoln was plainly seen by most of
the people present, for it was higher than that of
any other. When he came into the room, it was, as
usual, pale, and tinged with the sadness which was
its principal characteristic in repose. He folded his

hands before him, and stood rather awkwardly as
he waited for the interview to begin. After making
his compliments and shaking hands, each Indian
returned to his seat on the carpet in the crescent
of his brethren. When all had performed the
ceremony, each one in turn made his speech to the
President, standing up for the purpose, and sitting
down when done, in parliamentary fashion, prob-
ably through instructions from the interpreter.
The first one who essayed to talk grew nervous,
and in a hurried way asked for a chair in the
spirit of a wrecked mariner who seeks for a plank.
When it was furnished him, he took his seat and
resumed the entangled thread of his discourse. As
this trifling incident took place, a smile passed over
the faces of the spectators, and was reflected in that
of Lincoln. This smile, indeed, deepened into an
audible laugh in the rear; but when the ear of the
President caught it, his face immediately straight-
ened into seriousness and sympathy with the dis-
concerted Indian. He did not at once begin, and
the interpreter said :

"Mr. President, White Bear asks for time to
collect his thoughts."

The President bowed, and another smile went
round at the plight of the perturbed Indian, but
did not appear in the face of Lincoln.

Soon, White Bear rose to his feet, went at it
again, and after a fashion got through with what
he wanted to say, at which there was a murmur of
applause.

The burden of their speeches was the same.
They had all come such a long distance, and so
quickly, that they felt as if they were birds. To
see the Great Father had been the wish of their
lives. They were poor, and required help. They
had always respected their treaties, and were the
friends of the white man. They wanted to be
prosperous and rich like their white brother. Big
Wolf, particularly, enlarged on this theme. He
said that he would like to have horses and carriages,
sausages such as he ate in the hotel in Washington,
and a fine wigwam — "like this," added he, as he
designated the highly ornamented apartment .in
which he stood. At this, the President could not
restrain the desire to share in the general smile.

Red Fox was the attorney and orator of the
delegation. He dwelt on the gratification he ex-
perienced at seeing the Great Father. It was the
proudest and most important event of his existence.
Had he been familiar with the Neapolitan proverb.

i8 7 6.]

A REMINISCENCE OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

" See Naples and then die," he would doubtless
have paraphrased it to suit the occasion. There
was, however, a cloud in the otherwise clear sky
of his enjoyment. He had an apprehension that
when he returned to his people in the Far West,
they might not believe that he had seen the Great
Father and talked to him face to face as it was his
great privilege to do then and there. Hence he
would like to return to his people laden down with
presents, — "shining all over like a looking-glass,"
— to prove to them the friendly relations which
existed between himself and the Great Father.

as the interpreter turned his words into the tongue
■of the red men. Their curiosity was fully aroused.
Even the spectators looked inquiringly at Lincoln,
to know how he was going to provide horses and
carriages for those who thus bluntly asked for them.
"You all have land," said Lincoln. "We will
furnish you with agricultural implements, with
which you will turn up the soil, by hand if you
have not the means to buy an ox, but I think with
the aid which you receive from the Government,
you might at least purchase one ox to do the
plowing for several. You will plant corn, wheat,

MR. LINCOLN TFLLS THE INDIANS HOW TO GET HORSES AND CARRIAGES.

There was no resisting this, and there was some
good-humored laughing, but the faces of all the
Indians remained serious and reserved.

" Mr. President," said the interpreter, " the
chiefs would be glad to hear you talk. "

To which Lincoln intimated that he would
endeavor to do so.

" My red brethren," said Lincoln, " are anxious
to be prosperous and have horses and carriages
like the pale faces. I propose to tell them how
they may get them."

At this the dusky men were all attention, and
manifested their satisfaction by the usual Indian
guttural sounds.

"The plan is a simple one," said the President,

and potatoes, and with the money for which you
will sell these you will be able each to buy an ox
for himself at the end of the first year. At the end
of the second year, you will each be able to buy
perhaps two oxen and some sheep and pigs. At
the end of the third, you will probably be in a con-
dition to buy a horse, and in the course of a few
years you will thus be the possessor of horses and
carriages like ourselves."

This plan for becoming proprietor of horses and
carriages was not relished, for it meant work, and
the faces of the Indians bore a disappointed ex-
pression as the President unfolded it.

"I do not know any other way to get these
things," added Lincoln. " It is the plan we have

GRANNY S STORY.

[NOVEMBE

pursued — at least those of us who have them.
You cannot pick them off the trees, and they do
not fall from the clouds."

Had it not been for the respect which they owed
to the speaker as the Great Father, it was plain
that they would have exclaimed against his words
with the untutored energy of their Indian nature.
As he was well acquainted with that nature, having
served as captain in the Tippecanoe war and spent
his early life on the frontier, a suspicion entered
my mind that he was blending with the advice a
little chaffing. To change the subject and restore
them to good humor, he requested one of the
attendants to roll up a large globe of the world
which stood in a corner on a three-legged support
on wheels. The President placed his hand on the
globe and turned it round, saying :

" We pale faces believe that the world is round.
like this."

At this point Lincoln caught the inquiring eyes
of the Indians fastened like a note of interrogation
on the legs of the globe.

"Without the legs," continued Lincoln, in
answer to the mute interrogation, with a twinkle
in his eye. "We pale faces can get into a big
canoe, shoved by steam, — here, for instance, at

Washington, or Baltimore near by, — go round tht.
world, and come back to the place from which we
started."

With due respect to the Great Father, they evi-
dently thought, to give it a mild term, that he wai
given to exaggeration. He started off again, to tell
about the North Pole, the torrid zone, the length
and breadth of the United States, and how long it
would take a man to walk from one end of it to the
other, in which he got somewhat entangled; then
seeing a well-known man of science on his right,
Lincoln placed his hand on his shoulder, gently
urged him forward to a position in front of the
Indians, to whom he said:

" But here is one of our learned men, who will
tell you all about it."

Saying this, Lincoln bowed and withdrew, and
the savant, taken by surprise, endeavored to extri-
cate himself from the difficulty as best he could, by
continuing the theme where the President left off.

One somber event followed the Indian reception.
Big Wolf, who had expressed the desire to have
sausages like white men, satisfied his appetite in
the hotel on this food without stint, and it was this
product of our civilization which was his bane. In
a word, sausage killed him.

GRANNY'S STORY.

By Emily Huntington Miller.

Yes, lads, I 'm a poor old body ;

My wits are not over clear ;
I can't remember the day o' the week,

And scarcely the time o' year.
But one thing is down in my mem'ry

So deep, it is sure to stay ;
It was long ago, but it all comes back

As if it had happened to-day.

I mind 't was a raw Thanksgiving,

The sleet drove sharp as knives,
And most of us here at the harbor

Were sailors' sweethearts and wives.
But I had my goodman beside me,

And everything tidy and bright,
When, all of a sudden, a signal

Shot up through the murky night,

Here, stand by the window, laddies.

Do you see, away to the right,
A long black line on the water,

Topped with a crest of white ?
That is the reef Defiance,

Where the good ship Gaspereau
Beat out her life in the breakers,

Just fifty-six years ago.

And a single gun in the darkness

Boomed over and over again,
As if it bore in its awful tone

The shrieks of women and men.
And down to the rocks we crowded,

Facing the icy rain,
Praying the Lord to be their aid,

Since human help was vain.

J vi8 7 6.]

LITTLE BOSTON GIRL OF 1776.

Then my goodman stooped and kissed me,

And said, " It is but to die:
Who goes with me to the rescue ? "

And six noble lads cried "I ! "
And crouching there in the tempest,

Hiding our faces away,
We heard them row into the blackness,

And what could we do but pray ?

So long, when at last we heard them

Cheering faint, off the shore,
I thought I had died and gone to heaven,

And all my trouble was o'er.
And the white-faced women and children

Seemed like ghosts in my sight,
As the boats, weighed down to the water,

Came tossing into the light.

Eh, that was a heartsome Thanksgiving,

With sobbing and laughter and prayers :
Our lads with their brown, dripping faces,

And not a face missing from theirs.
For you never can know how much dearer

The one you love dearest can be,
Till you 've had him come back to you safely

From out of the jaws of the sea.

And little we cared that the breakers

Were tearing the ship in their hold.
There are things, if you weigh them fairly,

Will balance a mint of gold.
And even the bearded captain

Said, "Now let the good ship go,
Since never a soul that sailed ^with me

Goes down in the Gaspereau."

A LITTLE BOSTON GIRL OF 1776.
By Mrs. E. G. Carter.

If you had been in Boston one hundred years
ago, you might have seen, one pleasant April morn-
ing, a clumsy, yellow-bodied, four-wheeled chaise
lumbering and clattering over the cobble-stone
pavements of Orange Street. On the front seat
sat a small black driver, grinning, squirming and
ejaculating in a marvelous manner. On the back
seat was a prim lady, with a pursed-up mouth and
very elevated eyebrows. So expressive of indigna-
tion was her face, that the gray hair drawn sharply
up over the cushion topping her forehead, seemed
about to lift itself up and float off on the sweet
spring air.

Beside the displeased-looking lady was a restless
little sprite in scarlet cloak and hood, whose small
head wagged from side to side in wondering scru-
tiny of the streets and houses which her little
bright eyes had not looked on for nearly a year.

After the battle of Lexington, Boston was in a
state of siege, and a great many of the inhabitants
on the patriot side early availed themselves of
the permission to leave the town with their effects.
The British occupied the beleaguered town for
eleven months, and when they could hold it no
longer, hurriedly departed on the morning of the
17th of March. The exiled families were now re-
turning to their deserted homes and hearths.

The yellow post-chaise had picked its way cau-
tiously into Boston over the Neck, Sam looking out
sharply for the iron crow's-feet, with which the
British had strewn the road. This peril passed,
Sam was ordered to make a detour before he drew
up at the door in Marlborough Street, that the ladies
might have a glimpse of their beloved Common.

" Hi ! yi ! zi ! " grunted Sam, as his rolling eyes
surveyed the devastation made by the troops.
" Fences down, big trees down, yartti" all cut up
and cris-crossed like mince-meat ! I 'd like to get
hold o' dose Britishoors ! "

In default of a " Britishoor," Sam swelled him-
self up and laid the whip on to the luckless horse,
so that the poor beast started off at a break-neck
pace through Paddock's Mall and down a cross-
way into Marlborough Street. He stopped short
at last before a gambrel-roofed house that stood at
the end of a little court-yard, fancifully paved with
beach stones, and lined on either side by a row of
poplars.

Little Abigail quickly scrambled out of the chaise
after her mother, nearly smothering with hugs and
kisses the portly black woman in a plaid turban,
who stood on the broad door-step to greet them.

" Welcome home, missuses ! Praise be to Prov-
idence, our walls, and roof, and chimleys is a

A LITTLE BOSTON GIRL OF 1776.

fNoVEMBEI

stannin' pooty much as we'se lef' 'em. But every
other thing 'bout de house looks 'z if de caterpillar
and de locus' and all de res' of de plagues of Egypt
had lit on 'em, and crawled over 'em toof and nail.
But, howsomever, small marcies is matter of thanks-
giving in dese times of war and tribulation."

We will leave Mrs. Ward and black Phillis to .
make the tour of the ill-used house, which during
their absence had been occupied by British officers,
while little Abigail darts off to look for her London
doll, Gloriana, hidden for many months in a small
secret closet in the wall.

Abigail's stout high-heeled shoes clattered up
over the oaken stairs from landing to landing, and
the little girl made heedless haste from room to
room, skurrying at last into a queer three-corned
chamber, where she scrambled up into a tall chair
and felt, 'with nervous eagerness, along the dingy
paneled wall. She touched the spring she sought,
and a small door flew open, revealing a deep, low,
triangular closet, in the midst of which sat majes-
tically the London doll, Gloriana, presiding over
a few moldy fragments of tarts and cakes.

" Oh, my Gloriana ! " cried little Abigail, in
a frenzy of delight. "There you are just exactly
as lovely, and live, and precious as I left you last
spring."

Abigail seized the precious Gloriana and hugged
her to her heart, whereupon a fine sprinkling of
shreds of golden hair, and bits of silkeri over-dress
and petticoat, powdered little Abigail's scarlet cloak.
Alas, the little mice had not only been busy with
Gloriana's tarts and cakes, but had unblushingly
nibbled the doll's wig and garments.

"Never mind your clothes, Glory dear, I can
make you new ones," chirped Abigail, cheerfully,
shaking the shreds from her cloak. " If the mice
had gnawed your lovely nose, that would have been
a great mischief; but you are beautifuller than
ever. Oh, how I used to cry, some nights, out in
Milton, when I heard the cannon boom-booming !
I was so afraid a ball might go right through your
precious, precious head. How scared and mis'ble
I was, too, when I locked you up here in such a
hurry. Don't you remember how old Phillis stuck
her head in the room and says, ' Toss that poppet
into the panel closet, and put your clothes into the
brass-bound trunk ? We 're off for Milton in an
hour, on the last pass to be had for love or money.'
Can't you hear her queer black pronouncements
this very minute, Gloriana, telling me 'not to waste
one vallerble second, if I did n't want the British
bayonets poking into my back?' Ha! ha! Come,
let's go down-stairs and look at things."

Down the crooked, winding back-stairs hurried
Abigail and the liberated Gloriana.

A bright fire of strange-shaped sticks blazed on

the kitchen hearth, where stout oaken logs wer
wont to be piled.

" How queer!" piped Abigail, surveying the fin.

"Queer, missis? Sartin. Mos' like 'tis th
blessed Wes' Church steeple itself," sighed Phillis
blowing dolefully with the bellows. " I heard te!
they cut it down for fire-wood. Poor folks' houses
too, chopped down by the dozen to keep th
wretched Tory pots a-b'ilin'. Dat 'ar warmin'-pan
look a' dat ! " Phillis threw down the bellows anc
seized the tongs, heaping coals on the bake-kettl
cover as if it were a red-coat's head. " All jags anq
smooches ! It 's my 'pinion the Britishers fit witl|
it 'stead of bayonets. So as dat 'ar used to shine
Look at dat dresser, too. Plates and mugs mus' 1
been jes' flung roun' in high scrimmage from morn I
in' till night. Never a one set 'spect'bly up on enc
since I lef dis yer kitchen, / know. If you 'd ;
seen the time I had scouring-up here and settlin:
things, you 'd said I 'd shore been down with dt
small-pox, or some killin' ail, long afore dis."

" Mamma ! " piped Abigail from the dining
room, about which she was now fluttering with
Gloriana. "Just see how the dining-table looks — ■
and the curtains ! Oh, mamma ! "

" Dey cut up raw meat on dat 'hogany table ;
yes, missis, so Governor Hancock's man Tom tolc
me," burst in Sam, gazing on the table with eyes
of horror, — the table which, with the assistance of
many cuffs and fillips from Phillis, he had been
used to keep as bright and spotless as a mirror.
" An' de curtings ! He says they blowed out in dt
rain and de sun from mornin' till night. Oh, my ! '

Sam, gaping and gazing at the battered house-
hold goods, his hands in his pockets and his woolly
head thrown back, looked a very statue of dismay.

Now came in, quite breathless, Benjamin, Abi-
gail's brother ; his cocked hat under his arm, and
his long-skirted coat unbuttoned.

"I've been everywhere, Abigail! Up Sentry
Hill, down to the Mill Pond, all through King
Street, and back again to the Jail ; on to the Com-
mon and into the ' Old South.' You ought to see
the Old South ! Pews all torn out, and "

" Pews torn out ! " gasped Abigail, all a-tremble
at the thought of sacrilegious hands having been
laid on the church.

"Torn out, and a riding-school fixed up at one
end ! I tell you what, Abigail Ward, you never
saw such a sight. Come right along with me. It
beats seeing Percy galloping up and down Long-
Acre on his white horse, getting his fine Fusiliers
under way for Lexington, that day old Carter dis-
missed us, and said : ' School 's out, boys. War
has begun ! ' Wasn't that a lively day."

Abigail, Gloriana and Benjamin were soon hur-
rying along to the Old South, which was quite near

Nffljfit]

THE BEES THAT WENT TO THE SKY.

)y. Abigail only peeped into the desecrated meet-
ng-house, though Benjamin was eloquent in urg-
ng the grand view from the gallery, which he
Assured her had been fitted up in fine style for
I jpectators ; and refreshments too, of prime qual-
ity, had been sold up there !

Abigail stopped her ears and hurried out in
[raorror. Seeing her face of distress, a bold-faced
P30y sidled up to her and announced, glibly :

" Deacon Hubbard's pew, silk curtains and all,
was carted down behind our wood-shed and made
.into a pig- pen. Want to see it ? "

"You're a naughty Tory boy!" flashed out
Abigail ; and gathering up her little quilted home-
spun skirt, she pattered off over the flag-stones,
^followed by her laughing brother.
\i " Let 's go and look at the Province House.
1 Our flag is hoisted there. Thirteen stripes ! It
n looks gay, I can tell you."

1! " Let 's," said Abigail, stamping her foot as if
the hated British colors were under her heel.
j So, with their heads in the air and their admiring
1 eyes on the flag, they sauntered over the Province
-House lawn, and then climbed the twenty steps
that led to the grand entrance. These steps they

remembered gay with gayly dressed gentlemen
and officers coming and going from the governor,
who lived there in great state. But the governor
had vanished, and not a red-coat did they see.
They were all gone together.

'• Hoorah ! Good-by to the lobster-coats!"
shouted Benjamin, swinging his cocked hat.

" Hoorah ! " shrilled little Abigail, swinging
Gloriana till fragments of her wig and petticoat
powdered the stones.

Just at this patriotic explosion, the Old South
struck twelve, and with a parting glance at the
bronze Indian above the cupola, gazing down at
them with his glittering glass eyes, the children
hastened home to dinner.

"Where have you been, Abigail?" said the
prim lady, who was crossing the hall as the small
people closed the door behind them.

Abigail explained. Then, for going out without
permission, she was obliged to thrust Gloriana
back into the panel closet with the moldy frag-
ments of last year's feast ; then to come down and
sit in her straight-backed chair, and stitch diligently
on her sampler one hour by the tall clock in the
hall.

THE BEES THAT WENT TO THE SKY.

By Joel Stacy.

Buzzy Buzz, Wuzzy Fuzz, Dippetty Flop,
Ali flew up to the cherry-tree top.
" Pooh ! " said Buzzy Buzz, "this is n't high !
Let's keep on till we get to the sky."

Upward they went, and they never would stop —
Buzzy Buzz, Wuzzy Fuzz, Dippetty Flop ;
"Ah, how jolly!" they started to say —
When ev'ry one of them fainted away !

The next they knew they were down on the

ground,
Three dizzy bumble-bees, frightened but sound :

Never a mortal had heard them drop —
Buzzy Buzz, Wuzzy Fuzz, Dippetty Flop.

Humbled and tumbled, and dusty and lamed,
Would n't you think they 'd have been quite

ashamed ?
But "No, sir," they buzzed, "it was n't a fall;
We only came down from the sky, that is all."

And now, whenever you see three bees
Buzzing and pitching about by your knees.
You '11 know, by their never once venturing high,
They're the very same bees that flew up to the sky !

ALL ABOUT LEAD-PENCILS.

[November

<££.

LEAP- YEAR.

ALL ABOUT LEAD-PENCILS.
By James W. Preston.

The lead-pencil, as we have it, was unknown to
the ancients, and even to the moderns before the
reign of " Good Queen Bess," as the English love
to call their Queen Elizabeth. Just think how in-
convenient it must have been to those old Greek
and Latin authors, and to the writers and scholars
of Europe from the earliest times down to within
about three hundred years, to have no lead-pencils
with which to write or to rule their paper — or what-
ever they wrote upon. They often used a piece of
sheet lead, cut as any boy could cut it, into a flat
disk, with the edge sharpened all around so as to
make a fine line, but of course this was not to write

with, but only to rule lines to write on. And then
again, what did artists and designers use to draw
and sketch with ? Almost all of them used the old-
fashioned pen (made of the goose or crow quill) and
ink. Some artists, indeed, made use of a kind of
pencil formed of a mixture of common lead and tin,
and as this composition was comparatively hard
and faint in color, the paper was prepared for the
purpose of drawing by giving it a coating of chalk.
Others, too. made some very fine drawings with
chalk of various colors. But the article chiefly in
use was the " gray goose quill."

With what delight, then, must the world of artists

i8 7 6.)

ALL ABOUT LE AD - P E N C I LS.

and writers of all kinds have hailed the invention
of the hlack-lead pencil, as we have it to-day ! 1
said black-lead, but although the metallic part of
this little implement is universally called black-lead,
there is not a particle of lead in it. This black,
smooth, soft and glossy substance is properly called
plumbago, and is a compound of carbon and iron,
or, as the chemists term it, a carburet of iron.

There are several varieties of plumbago found in
the rocks in different parts of the world, some of
which are good for one use, and others for other
uses, and it happens that one of these varieties is
fine-grained, soft, nearly free from grit, and well
adapted for writing with, and this kind has received
the name of graphite, from Greek words which
signify writing stone.

Some of my readers doubtless remember that in
the time of Queen Elizabeth of England, was born
the greatest of English poets, William Shakspeare.
He came into the world in the year 1564, about six
years after Elizabeth came to the throne, and it was
in that same year that there was discovered in the
county of Cumberland, in the north-west corner of
England, a mine of the best and purest graphite
that had ever been seen. I have put these dates
together so that you will be apt to remember them
all, when either of them is mentioned. This sub-
stance was so solid and firm and strong, and free
from grit or sandy particles, that it could be sawed
into sheets, and these could be sawed again into
little narrow strips without breaking. These little
strips of graphite being soft, and smooth, and black,
were inclosed in round pieces of some soft wood,
grooved out to receive and hold them ; and that
was the modern lead-pencil to all intents and pur-
poses.

This mine at Borrowdale, in Cumberland, at
once became very celebrated, and of course very
valuable.- Pencils made of Cumberland graphite
were to be found all over Europe, and were highly
prized everywhere. The manufacture of lead-pen-
cils became a very important branch of business,
and in order to keep it wholly within the borders
of their own country, the English government
passed laws prohibiting the export of graphite to
foreign lands. Its value was such, that the average
price in London was about ten dollars ($10) a
pound, and the very finest quality sometimes
reached forty dollars ($40) a pound. They took
such good care of it that only a certain quantity,
enough to supply the requirements of the pencil-
makers, was doled out, on the first Monday in
every month ; and moreover, the government was
obliged to keep a military force at the mines, to
protect it from bands of marauders and robbers,
who attempted to get possession of it.

England thus supplied the world with lead-pen-

cils for nearly three hundred years. It is true that
pencils were made of an impure graphite in some
other parts of Europe ; but they were a very inferior
article compared with the English, and artists and
all others who required good lead-pencils were
obliged to look to England for them.

But there is an end to almost all good things,
and so it proved at last with the graphite mine of
Cumberland. Its exhaustion was only a question
of time, and that time has now passed. It was
clearly foreseen that some means must be devised
for making the impure kinds of graphite available
for the needs of the world, or the world must be
content to give up the use of black-lead pencils.
All sorts of experiments were tried with the graph-
ite to purify and soften it, and at the same time to
give it firmness and cohesion, so that it would not
break nor crumble when sharpened and in use.
They ground up the plumbago to a fine powder,
washed it in repeated waters, so as to separate the
sand or grit from it, and afterward subjected it to a
great pressure to make it compact and firm. But
this did not succeed. They then mixed the pow-
dered plumbago with different materials, such as
glue, isinglass, gum arabic, etc., to give it the
necessary strength ; but this did not answer at all.
Then they added to the powdered material about
one-third its weight of pulverized sulphur, and this
was a partial success, but the marks made with
this mixture were faint, and did not satisfy the
need, and this was, on the whole, a failure.

But at last, as usual, patience, perseverance, in-
genuity and experience solved the problem. Pen-
cils are now made better adapted for all uses,
blacker or fainter, harder or softer, than ever could
be made of the best Cumberland lead by the old
method. The mode of treating the plumbago by
which this result is obtained is a French invention.
It consists simply in mixing the powdered and
purified plumbago with powdered clay, in a certain
manner and certain proportions, moistening and
drying and pressing and baking the mass, varying
the treatment according to the different grades of
pencils required. What is meant by grade in this
connection, will be readily understood if you ex-
amine a case of A.. W. Faber's finest and best
polygrade lead-pencils. You will find upon them
certain letters, which indicate the degree of hard-
ness or softness, and the shade whether darker
or lighter. For example, bbbbbb means that the
pencil bearing that mark is extra soft and very
black ; BBB, very soft and very black ; BB, very
soft and black ; B, soft and black y HB. less soft
and black ; F ', middling j H, hard : hh, harder ;
hhh, HHHH, very hard ; HHHHHH, extra hard.

These different grades are very convenient, and
indeed are required by artists ; but by the old

THE OWL THAT STARED.

[November,

method of making the Cumberland lead-pencils,
these nice shadings of softness and blackness could
not have been obtained. So that human ingenuity
and care may make an inferior article answer a
better purpose than the purest natural product,
unaided by human skill.

There is a very grand manufacturing establish-
ment in Germany, where the best lead-pencils are
made: an establishment which a century ago con-
sisted of only one little cottage house by the river-
side, but now comprises large shops and tasteful
dwelling-houses, a garden and grove, a gymnasium,
a fine library, and a beautiful Gothic church, all
provided and supported by the proprietors, for the

use and benefit of the workmen and their families,
whose fathers and grandfathers have worked on the
same spot and for the same family for a hundred
years or more.

If I had space, I might also tell you how a most
valuable mine of graphite, as good as that of Cum-
berland, has been discovered in Siberia, from which
that great manufactory is supplied with graphite.
I could also tell you how the cedar-wood of which
the pencils are made is taken from a cedar swamp
on the western side of Florida, so that this cedar
is transported to the heart of Europe, and there
united with graphite from the mountains of Siberia,
to be used as lead-pencils by Americans.

THE OWL THAT STARED.

By Rose Hawthorne Lathrop.

When young Trotty Derridown went to the
country to spend Thanksgiving at her grandmother's
last year, she happened to get into the great old-
fashioned garret. She was so impatient for dinner
on the morning of Thanksgiving Day, that she
wandered hither and thither inside and outside of
the house (which was very empty and still, because
almost every one had gone to church), trying to see
or smell something which would be at least half as
pleasant as turkey and plum-pudding are to eyes
and nose; to say nothing of being allowed a mouth-
ful of either on one's fork. And so, after opening
a great many doors, and going into a great many
places where she was not expected to go, she at
last opened a door at the foot of such a dark stair-
case that she thought the world had suddenly
turned upside down, and that this must be a fairy
road leading up into the earth !

Trotty stood in the half-opened door-way quite a
long time, unable to decide whether she had the
courage to enter a fairy kingdom after all, though
she had often determined to do so if she got a
chance. Then it came into her head that perhaps
dinner would be served earlier in Fairyland than at
home, which overcame her fears, and .the garret-
door closed after her little pink skirt as it whisked
out of the sunlight. When Trot reached the head
of the stairs she knew she was not in Fairyland,
because of a dim light from two windows, which
showed her all sorts of odds and ends of furniture,

and bunches of herbs hanging to the many beams
that spread beneath the roof like huge roots. But
it would do just as well as Fairyland for the pres-
ent, she thought, and help her to get used to queer
things. Very likely there were elves in the dark
crannies on every side ; and the idea made her
almost wish herself in the sunny entry again.

"There's something quee-ar ! " she exclaimed,
as she caught sight of a great black velvet bonnet
a hundred years old, that looked a good deal like
a basket. But it had two long strings dangling
down, so she knew what it was in a minute. Of
course she scrambled into a cradle standing under
the wonderful bonnet, and snuffed out her pretty
face with it, as one does a candle, in a trice. Then
she made a big bow of the strings under her chin,
which took her a long time, as any little girl of five
might know it would. She looked very much like
an hour-glass now, for she was as broad at top as at
bottom, with a little waist in the middle. However,
she could not see herself, and had reason to suppose
nobody else knew whether she was looking her best
or not,.since she could not have felt further off from
grandmother and all the family if she had stepped
over to Japan.

"What can you be?" thought the pink skirt
and black bonnet, walking up to a spinning-wheel
higher than two Trotties. When she saw it was a
wheel she thought it ought to go round, no matter
how big it was (and it seemed to her as big as the

i8 7 6.]

THE OWL THAT STAKED.

duck-pond), so she put a finger on one of the spokes
and gave a push with all her might. What a rattle it
made ! Something flew up and something flapped
down, and the wheel seemed delighted to have a lit-
tle exercise after twenty years of snoozing, and kept
going round, rattling and banging for some time.

" Ho-hoo-00 ! " heard Trotty all at once from
somebody behind. She was sure it was a crowd of
Brownies or some such fry, for the sound was soft
and strange. She threw her head back very far,
in order to get a good view from under the wide-

took Dinah into her arms and petted her, as she
petted all her dolls. Dinah was on the broad grin,
in or out of trouble. She had red flannel lips and
white cotton teeth and a black cashmere face. Her
dress was red, with a white pinafore, so that she
was very cheering to look at ; and she had a sweet
disposition, as one could see directly, for she held
her head on either this side or that, being cloth,
and never was stiff-necked like the Israelites. The
only stiff thing about her was her hair, and that
grandmother had knitted, and ironed, and raveled

TROTTY AND DINAH.

spreading bonnet, and gazed around. Then she
sat down on the floor and looked under the bureaus
and chairs and sofas. Yes, there was a Brownie,
sure enough, hanging by the foot out of the lower
drawer of one of the bureaus. It looked uncom-
fortable, and Trotty thought it very stupid in a
creature that was first cousin to the Fairies to allow
itself to be in that position. The next moment she
saw it was nothing more nor less than a good old
negro dolly, with lovely frizzly hair standing up all
over its head, as if it were a black thistle.

"Come to me, dear," whispered Trotty, sitting
along the floor till she arrived at the bureau. "Has
the naughty drawer hurt dolly's foot ? " and she
Vol. IV.— 2.

out, so it was not Dinah's fault if it never lay flat
afterward.

" You pressus doll ! " cooed Trotty, after looking
at her treasure for a long time ; and she was amazed
to think she could ever have lived without her.

"Ho-hoo-00!" sounded somewhere again.

Trotty was not much frightened this time, be-
cause she had Dinah for company. She threw her
head back once more, de-ter-mined to find out who
spoke. Mercy on us ! She caught sight of two
great yellow eyes in a corner.

"Pussy?" said she, questioningly. But when
Trotty in the big black bonnet, and Dinah in the
red dress and white pinafore, came close to the

THE OWL THAT STARED.

[November

corner, behold, there were wings under the eyes,
and only two feet under the wings.

" You 're an owl," said Trotty.

And it was an owl; and he looked cross as if he
were biting his own nose, although he was only
curling his beak up under his chin, apparently not
meaning to speak between now and next Thanks- •
giving. Trotty was soon tired of having the owl
look at her so hard, with his ears standing up
straight, as though he heard some one saying unkind
things of him behind his back, so she remarked :

" Please shut your eyes a minute. You have no
business to keep them open in the day-time, any-
way. "

' ' Always listen to what Trotty Derridown says,
and give her plenty of plum-pudding," answered
the owl unexpectedly, holding up the tip of a wing
as one does a forefinger. But he did not shut his
eyes. Owls are of a philosophic turn ; and philos-
ophers are always giving away wisdom (as Trotty's
grandmother does the pears in autumn, lest they
rot on the grass), because they have more than they
can keep. But it is quite another matter for them
to find time to act upon their own advice, or to eat
their own wisdom, because they are so busy grow-
ing it and sending it to their neighbors. Now the
owl in the corner looked stuffed to choking with
something.

"Arc you stuffed with wisdom?" asked his young
visitor, who had heard about owls and philosophers
from her brother Hal.

The owl lifted one of his claws and laid it on the
side of his beak. "Goodness!" said he, "was
there ever such a clever little girl ? "

Since the question was put to her, Trotty thought
she might as well answer good-naturedly, so she
said she supposed there never had been.

At this the owl shrugged his shoulders even
higher than before, and Trotty was afraid she had
not answered to his taste after all.

"What do you play?" asked the little girl of
the bird, when they had both been silent awhile.

The owl ruffled himself up the wrong way, and
looked like a feather pillow turned inside out, for
about five minutes, till Trotty's legs ached with
waiting.

" I am the Bird of the Philosophers. I play ball
with them. We throw questions and answers at
each other. Ho-hoo-oo ! "

" I could do that. Play ball, 1 mean," said
Trotty.

"Oh, no," said the owl, haughtily. "First, all
the philosophers sit round in a circle, each with a
long white beard on and plenty of questions in his
pocket. I stand in the middle with all the answers
under one claw. "

" What do you do next? " asked Trot, her eyes

nearly as round as the owl's now. He sighed be
fore answering.

" I try to hit the right question, as it flies ovei
my head, with the right answer, and this must bt
done before any of the old gentlemen can get hole
of it. They wear long beards in hopes that soim
of the questions may get entangled in them. M\
eyesight has to be good, and that is the reason m\
gaze seems, to some people, rather intense."

"Would not you rather play with me than with;
those old Sossophers ? " demanded Trotty.

The Philosophers' Bird smiled, but held its wind
to its cheek and said, " Hush-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh ! "

She was quite startled by the noise he madcj
when he said " Hush," so she took several step^
backward and leaned up against something. It
was hard and warm, and she soon discovered it wa?
the chimney.

"That 's where your dinner is being cooked,"
suggested some one ; she was not sure whether it
was the owl or Dinah.

" However, I must be going," she said. " But I
should like to send a message to those old gentle-
men. Will you take it, owl?"

The owl put his beak a great way under his chin
again, and turned his ears forward as if he were
listening attentively.

"Why, you see," continued Trotty, looking
earnestly into the bird's yellow eyes, and speaking
round her thumb, which she had put between her
lips, "I guess they'd better play stwzv-baXls in
winter, and go a-chestnutting in au/un, and sea-
bathing in summer, and ■ "

The owl broke into a real laugh at this ; but sud-
denly checked himself, drew himself up indignantly,
and looking over Trotty's head, exclaimed :

"All my old philosophers go sea-bathing, for-
sooth ! "

Just then she heard a deep-toned bell ringing
good-naturedly down-stairs, and soon some one
came calling through the entry —

"Trot! Trot! where have you gone? Dinner
is ready."

How Trot ran ! Dinah got a flap on every cornerr)
they passed ; but then she was always contented
with whatever happened, and appeared in the entry
with as smiling a face as her new mamma.

There was Trotty's mamma, too, laughing at her
black basket of a bonnet. All at once her brother
Hal stood by her side, and she half believed she
had seen him come out of the garret door.

"Well, Miss Derridown," gasped he, quite out
of breath, "how do you like the Philosophers
Bird ? " and he doubled himself up and went tum-
bling down-stairs. When he was a great way off,
Trotty heard such a shout of merriment ! She
does not understand what it all means even yet.

i8 7 6.|

A QUEEN, AND NOT A QUEEN.

LISTENING.

By Mary N. Prescott.

I HAVE heard — I don't know whether
Wide awake or fast asleep —

That the stars once sang together
To some shepherds tending sheep.

So, at night, when they are glistening,'
Just before I close my eyes,

I look up, and keep a-listening
For the music from the skies.

And the stars shine out so brightly,
That I cannot think but they,

While I listen to them nightly,
Will repeat the heavenly lay.

A QUEEN, AND NOT A QUEEN.

By Susan Coolidge.

A LONG time, — more than seven hundred years
ago, and three centuries at least before Columbus
discovered America, — there was born in England a
little girl to whom they gave the name of Matilda.
This little girl belonged to a very high family
indeed, as you will think when I tell you who her
relations were. For grandpapa, she had William,
the great Duke of Normandy, called "The Con-
queror," because he invaded England and conquered
it. Her father was the king, Henry I., surnamed
Beauclerc, because he was so good a scholar, though
I rather fancy our high-school boys could beat
his learning without trouble. Matilda's mother,
known to history as " Maud the Good," was de-
scended from Harold, the last of the Saxon kings.
Maud the Good was not a very happy Maud.
When she was a young girl, they put her into a
convent, and there she hoped to spend her life,
tending flowers, and telling her beads with the

gentle nuns. But one day, came to the convent
King Henry, to order her to put aside her veil and
become his wife. — an order not easy to disobey,
because in those days kings were very powerful.
People hoped that by thus uniting the royal race of
the Saxons with the conquering Norman race, an
end would be put to the many feuds and quarrels
which made the kingdom restless and unhappy.
So Maud, with a sigh, left the peaceful retreat, and
married King Henry. She had a little son and a
little daughter, the Princess Matilda ; but she was
not happy, and died young, feeling, the old chron-
icles tell us, that her sacrifice had been in vain,
and England was no better off than if she had
stayed in the convent.

For in those days England was a sad place
enough ; even a poet would never have dared to
call it " merry " then. Everywhere was confusion
of rulers and of languages. The tongue we call

A QUEEN, AND NOT A QUEEN.

[November,

English was not yet in being, and people spoke
Celtic, Cymric, Gaelic, Saxon, or French, — accord-
ing to the race they belonged to, and the part of
the country in which they lived. All the materials
for the England of to-day were there, but they were
in separate parcels, so to speak, and only time could
mix and blend them. The Saxons fought the Nor-
mans ; the Normans robbed, imprisoned, and tort-
ured everybody they could lay hold of who had
property of any kind. Everywhere — no matter
which party governed — the poor were ill-treated
and pillaged. Multitudes fled across the sea to
other lands, and "so general was the discourage-
ment of the people, that whenever two or three
horsemen only were seen approaching a village or
open burgh, all the inhabitants fled to conceal
themselves. So extreme were their sufferings, that
their complaints amounted to impiety ; for, seeing
all these crimes and atrocities going on without
check or visible rebuke, men said openly that
Christ and His saints had fallen asleep." It is
hard, indeed, to realize that the rich, powerful
England of to-day can ever have been so miserable.

When little Matilda was five years old, she was
married to the Emperor of Germany. A fleet of
vessels sailed with the baby bride to her new home,
and there was a splendid show in London in honor
of her departure. But the people, who had to pay
for the show, did not enjoy it much ; and, later,
when Matilda was a woman grown, they remem-
bered against her the heavy taxes of that wedding-
time.

Not long after, a sad thing happened. Matilda's
brother, a young man of eighteen, went over to
Normandy with his father, and, coming back in a
vessel named the " White Ship" was drowned with
all his companions, only one surviving to tell the
tale. None of the courtiers dared to carry the news
to the king. So they sent in a little boy, almost a
baby, who, when he saw the king, knelt at his feet,
and began to cry. The king asked the child what
was the matter, and the little fellow sobbed out that
the "White Ship" was sunk and the prince drowned.
It is said that King Henry never was seen to smile
after that day. Mrs. Hemans wrote some pretty
verses on the subject, which some of you have per-
haps seen :

"He sat where mirth and jest went round ;

He bade the minstrel sing.
He saw the tourney's victor crowned

Amid the gallant ring.
A murmur of the restless deep

Mingled with every strain,
A voice of winds that would not sleep,

He never smiled again."

The little Empress Matilda was now the only
child left to the king, and his heart was set in be-
queathing to her the crown of England. Before

his death, in 1 128, he called the nobles of the
kingdom together, and made them swear allegiance
to her as queen. The emperor, Matilda's husband,
had died before this, and Matilda was married again
to the French Earl of Anjou. After her father's
death she came to England and was crowned at
Winchester. Daughter thus of one king, mother,
as she afterward became, of another, empress by
marriage, and Sovereign of England in her own
right, you will wonder that I have called Matilda
'" no queen." I will tell you why I did so. It was
because all her life long she never learned to reign
over herself, which for man or woman is the high-
est and most necessary form of government. Solo-
mon says : " He that ruleth his own spirit is better
than he that taketh a city ; " and Solomon, as you
know, was a king, and understood what becomes
crowned people as well as those who are not
crowned.

All her life long, — whether as princess, empress,
or queen. — Matilda showed herself vain, passionate,
vindictive, hasty, arrogant, and inconsiderate of
other people. She had none of the womanly tact
which often subdues prejudice and conquers influ-
ence. She was brave in time of danger, strong of
body, firm-willed, and fearless ; but these are rather
a man's qualities than a woman's. Patience and
sweetness she had none. Her haughty manners
and cruel speeches offended friends as well as foes.
Those who at first were ready to give all for her
service, became afterward her bitterest enemies.
She exasperated the common people by imposing
heavy taxes and making oppressive laws, just when
she should have conciliated and soothed them.
England had never been ruled by a woman before.
Both the nobles and the people disliked the idea of
a queen, and Matilda did nothing to make her sex
popular. She was ungenerous also. Her cousin,
and rival, Stephen, who afterward became king in
her stead, once surprised and captured her in
Arundel Castle, and instead of detaining, courte-
ously let her go, and even furnished her with
an escort to her friends. Later, she in her turn
captured Stephen ; but, far from remembering his
kind treatment and reciprocating it, she loaded him
with chains and threw him into the dungeon of
Bristol Castle. His wife, a princess of great beauty
and excellence, came to beg his release, and Matilda
received her in the rudest manner, heaped insulting
words upon her, and finally dismissed her harshly,
while the poor princess wept and pleaded in vain.
A little longer, and it was again Stephen's turn.
He made his escape from Bristol, gained one battle
after another, and pursued Matilda so hotly, that
more than once she slipped through his fingers
almost as by a miracle. These escapes of Queen
Matilda are celebrated in history. Whole volumes

1876.]

A QUEEN, AND NOT A QUEEN.

J.Y

jfti!

i'f;

Hill

ftNS

■If ! !™^

IKW 111

' • > 1^ "1,1 \>Avft^, l\x 1 i*j»«y

QUEEN MATILDA S FLIGHT FROM OXFORD.

B E N I T A .

[November,

of romances might be written about them, so strange
and picturesque and astonishing are they.

Once, when the citizens of London rose suddenly
against her, she got off by jumping on her horse
and galloping out of the city only five minutes before
the gates of her palace were battered down. Another
time she fled from Gloucester in the same way, the
Earl of Gloucester and a few gallant knights remain-
ing behind to keep the pursuers at bay. Again it
is said she feigned death, and was carried in a hearse
with a long train of mourners all the way from
Gloucester to Devizes. But, most romantic of all,
and most adventurous, was her escape from Oxford,
as shown in the illustration to this article.

Oxford boasted a strong castle in those days.
Into this the empress-queen had thrown herself,
and for three months had defended it bravely.
Then provisions gave out, and no hope was left but
flight. But how to fly ? Stephen's army lay on
every side like cats round a mouse-hole. Every
avenue of escape was guarded, and sleepless eyes
watched day and night that no one should pass in
or out of the fortress.

It was in this extremity that an unexpected ally
came to the rescue of Queen Matilda. This ally
was no other than that doer of good turns, Jack
Frost. One December night he went silently down,
laid a cold hard floor across the River Thames,
wrapped all the world in fleecy snow, and then,
flying to the castle windows, tapped with his crack-
ling icy knuckles, whistled, sang, and made many
sorts of odd noises, as much as to say, "All is ready,
come out and take a walk." Matilda heard, and a
bright plan popped into her daring head. She
called four trusty knights, bade them wrap them-
selves in white, put on herself a white dress and
cloak, covered her black hair with a white hood,

and, like spirits, all five set forth on foot. Their
steps made no sound as they crept along, and their
white figures cast hardly a shadow on the whiter
snow.

Through the besieging camp they crept, and
across the frozen river. No sentinel spied them ;
not even a dog barked. If any lonely peasant
waked up and caught a glimpse of the dim shapes
gliding by, he probably took them for ghosts, and
hid his head under the bedclothes again as fast as
possible. So, sometimes on foot, and sometimes
on horseback, but always unpursued and in safety,
the fugitives sped on, and reached Wallingford,
where Matilda's army lay, and were secure.

For a few years longer the struggle lasted ;
then, all hope over, Matilda fled across the channel
to Normandy. Her brief queenship was ended,
and she never came back to reign in England,
though in later years her son Henry II. became one
of its greatest monarchs. We don't know much
about Matilda's old age, but I cannot fancy that it
was a pleasant one. I imagine that she must have
been a disagreeable old lady, querulous, and exact-
ing. The girl makes the woman, you know ; youth
lays the foundation for after years, and what we
sow we reap. Matilda sowed pride, anger, selfish-
ness, and hard words, and her crop came up duly
as crops will. She could rule neither herself nor
others, and it is not wonderful that England refused
to be ruled by her. I wont draw any moral from
her story, for I know you will skip it, as I always
did with morals when I was a little girl. Besides,
you are bright enough to see the meanings of things,
and make out their lessons without help, and do
not need me to say in so many words that —

"Trust me dears, good-humor will prevail

When airs and flights, and screams and scoldings fail."

BENITA.
By Mary E. Bradley.

When the summer morning in the sky

Opens like a blossom, pink and pearly,
With the bee. and with the butterfly,

And with the bonny birds that sing so early,
Little blue-eyed, yellow-haired Benita

Trips along the shady woodland ways:
Kiss the little maiden kindly, if you meet her—

She deserves your kisses and your praise.

'T is a lonely path the little willing feet

In the early morning have to follow.
To the spring that bubbles, clearly cold and sweet,

Down amongst the mosses in the hollow.
Still behind the trees the shadows darken.

Chill her baby-bosom with a sudden dread ;
Timidly she looks about to hearken,

Fancving she hears a wild beast's tread !

i8 7 6.]

B E NITA.

Where its silver web the spider weaves,

Silver drops like fairy jewels twinkle ;
Pushing back the tangle of the leaves,

Face and hands get many a showery sprinkle.
But she does not stop, the little kind Benita,

For her coaties draggled and her dripping shoe ;
Only trips along with steps the fleeter,

Smiling at the pretty sparkles of the dew.

Cool and sweet it bubbles in the spring —

Oh, be sure the loving little sister
Hurries back, the healing draught to bring,

Long before the baby can have missed her.
By and by will come a mournful morrow

When she need not rise before the sun ;
Then it will be comfort in her sorrow

That she never left this task undone.

"timidly she looks about to hearken.'

,f.

In its cradle-bed, not yet awake,

Lies the baby-sister, wan and sickly ;
Every single morning, for her sake.

Goes Benita through the woods so quickly.
For the peevish lips are parched with fever,

The little pale face is a piteous sight,
And the water has no coolness to relieve her

That the mother sets beside her bed at night.

Grief is sorest when it brings to mind

Bitter memories for heart's regretting,
Times when we were selfish or unkind,

Times when all the wrong was in forgetting.
Like the little loving child Benita,

Let us do our duty every day ;
Gladness then will certainly be sweeter,

Sorrow will the sooner pass away.

2 4

GOOD TIMES.

[November,

GOOD TIMES.

i 7 6.]

STORY OF A "TOLERBUL" BAD BOY.

2 5

STORY OF A "TOLERBUL" HAD BOY.

By Sarah Winter Kellogg.

Marlborough Coleman sat tying his shoes.
They were heavy brogans, and the strings were
trips of leather, greased and waxed. It was well
hey had strength, or they could not have borne
he twitching and jerking they received at the hands
f the impatient, angry lad. His face was flushed
nd scowling. This was a pity, for the face was a
landsome one when the humor was good.

While he was yet about his shoes, his little sister
iukey entered the room with eager haste, her blue
checked apron gathered in her hand. She wanted
o show him some beauties of chestnuts her black
riend Barbary Allen had given her.

" Oh, Marley ! do see "

Marley interrupted her savagely :

" Don't come oh Marleying me ! I 'm mad ! "

"Oh, Marley ! what 're you "

" I told you not to ' oh Marley ' me. Come here
Btherin' me, when I 'm already bothered to death !"
Aunt Silvy ! " Sukey called to the negro woman
Ivho was beating a pile of dried beans on a sheet
ipread in the passage. "Aunt Silvy, come in to
Vlarley; he wants somebody ; he 's bothered."
" It 's so blamed mean," the boy said.
" Hesh, Mahs'r Mauley ! Yer raus' n't sw'ar.
Taint right, kase it's wicket." And, with this
philosophical remark, Aunt Silvy seated herself on
he second step of the stairs, leading from the room
:o the attic chamber above.

"I don't care what I do," Marley answered.
"It's enough to make an angel swear, or commit
.murder, or cut his own throat. Pa '11 disgrace me
brever. But I wont ! I wont ! I wont ! "

"Law, Mahs'r Mauley! what ails yer, honey?
Looks like yer wants ter chaw up dis whole planta-
cion. Neber seed nobody so mad sence I was
jawn. What is it yer wont, yer wont, yer wont ? "
" I wont tote a bag of corn to mill on ole black
Betts, — lean, lank, gaunt, mangy old mule."

" I would n't nuther ef I wus you, honey ; show 's
yer bawn I would n't. Sakes alive ! what would
Die mistiss do ef she wus ter look down from de
New Jeeruslum an' see her gran'son totin' ter mill,
straddle a sack uv cawn, like a missibul nigger?
She 'd feel mighty cheap ; neber could hole her
head up agin 'fore Sain' Paul an' Sain' Maffer, an'
Pilgum Progess, an' her udder soshates up dar.
'Sides dat, yer 'd dusgrace you' granpaw, too.
Law ! we all neber had no sich puffaumances at
you' granpaw Thompson's. Takes a Coleman to
do sich things. A genulmon ridin' a meal-bag to

mill ! I 'd a heap ruther do it myse'f den hab ole
mistisse's granchile do it."

At the picture of Aunt Silvy's portly figure seated
on a sack of corn on a trotting mule, Sukey laughed
and ran away to tell mamma.

Aunt Silvy had belonged to the wealthy Thomp-
son family, and when Elizabeth Thompson married
Mr. Coleman, Marlborough's father, against her
father's wishes, he had given her the slave Silvy,
and forbidden her his house. Mr. Coleman was a
vulgar man, with little means, whom Aunt Silvy
held in supreme disdain. The Coleman children
she tolerated because of the Thompson blood in
their veins.

"But I reckon you' paw," Aunt Silvy continued,
"can't spaw none de han's from de cotton-pickin'
to tote dat cawn ter mill. We all wont git de cot-
ton pick 'fore Christmus, ef we don't hurry ; an' ef
we all don't git it picked, we poor black folks can't
hab no Christmus. Mahs'r al'ays makes us pick
cotton all Christmus-day ef 't aint all in de gin-
house 'fore dat. Neber had no sich puffawmances
es dese at you' granpaw Thompson's. But, law !
de Thompsons is a deffrunt breed uv white folks
from de Colemanses — show's yer bawn dey is."

" I 've heard you say that a million times," Mar-
ley said, petulantly.

" Kase it's de troof," retorted Silvy. " I neber
knowed no cotton-pickin' gwyne on at ole Mahs'r
Thompson's Christmus-day. But law ! de Thomp-
son cotton uster be all pick by Christmus, an'
ginned, an' baled, an' sold, an' de money ready fer
de Christmus-gif's. De Thompson black folks wus
smaut. Dey wus a deffrunt breed uv black folks.
Dese Coleman niggers aint wuf shucks ; but de
Thompson cotton wus easier ter pick den de Cole-
man cotton ; come outen de bolls heap easier ; it
wus a deffrunt breed uv cotton den dis missibul
Coleman stuff. Ole mahs'r's plantation was a heap
richer 'n dis yere Coleman faum ; it wus a deffrunt
breed uv sile. Law, a heap uv things wus deffrunt ;
de hosses, an' bacon, an' hom'ny, an' de cawn
bread."

"Well, I want some clean socks an' a clean
shirt. If I hang myself before I get to mill, I want
to be found with some clean clothes on."

Marlborough said this in a light, laughing tone,
which pleased Aunt Silvy, as indicating an im-
proved humor ; but she little dreamed of the plan
the boy was meditating.

"Well, lem me see now. Whar did I put you'

STORY OF A "TOLERBUL BAD BOY.

[NoVEMBEli

tuther shirt an' socks de las' time I wash um ? I
mos' fawgits what I done wid um. Reckon I puts
um in one dese yere sideboa'd drawers."

Aunt Silvy crossed the room, and, with her strong
hand, stirred up the contents of said drawers, much
after the fashion in which she beat up her batter-
bread.

" Aint yere," she announced at the conclusion of
her search. "Reckons I hung um on dem dar
nails hine de door," and she entered upon a remark-
able rooting among the coats, and pants, and hats,
and aprons, and towels, and baskets, and sun-
bonnets, and petticoats, which thronged the said
nails; but among the throng, Marley's shirt and
socks were not.

" Whar did I put dem cloze uv yourn ? Can't
fine um high an' low. I jis warren dat dar good-
fer-nuffin, regen'rate, -aller-eyed Jim hes wore
dem dar cloze off, er-toti.'' dem cotton bales ter
Memphis."

This was Aunt Silvy's next conjecture in solution
of the problem.

Jim was her son, some seventeen years old. He
had gone to the Memphis market with six bales of
cotton. Memphis was seventy miles distant, and a
cotton bale weighs usually three hundred pounds.
But do not infer from Aunt Silvy's remark about
his toting cotton bales to Memphis that Jim was
anything of a Hercules. The word '"tote" with
Aunt Silvy was a somewhat indefinite term, as you
might have surmised at learning that Jim had the
assistance of a wagon and six mules in getting those
six bales of cotton to the Memphis market.

" Don't reckon," continued Aunt Silvy, "he wore
um off nuther; b'lieve I put um on dis yere mandul-
piece."

Candlestick, snutfers, baskets, knitting-work, sew-
ing, dress-patterns, hanks of yarn, hymn-book,
Bible, etc., etc., were moved off the chimney-shelf
to a chair, and left there, by the way, for ten days
afterward.

" I reckons dat regen'rate Jim is got um on arter
all," said Aunt Silvy, when this last search had
proved fruitless.

Marley all this time had been looking from the
window in a meditative way, seemingly uncon-
scious of Aunt Silvy's movements. Now he said :

" Jim could n't get into my shirt an' socks.
Hurry an' find them. If I 've got to tote that corn
to mill, I want to go an' be done with it. It '11 take
me all day to do the job. Bring along the socks
and shirt. Hurry ! "

" Law, Mahs'r Mauley, yer's so unpatient ! Ye
don't gim me no time ter 'member whar dem cloze
is. I mos' 'membered jis now, but yer dun gone
made me fawgit. B'lieve in my soul I laid um in de
big chis, top' uv de goober-peas. No, I don't

reckon I did nuther; reckons I put um in de litt
red chis. I mos' al'ays does put um in dar. Wa
tell I looks. Law ! now I 'members all 'bout
What a ole black goose I is ! I put dem cloze i
de pawler on de sofy ; oughter looked dar in de fu;
place, kase I mos' al'ays put um on de sofy. Y<
see, I knowed nobody would n't come to see u
'kase it's so cole; 'sides, nobody neber coim
scaccly."

" No wonder they don't," Marley said. " Pa di
graces us all ; makes me pick cotton, and go i
mill. All the neighbors think themselves above us
There aint a girl in the neighborhood that want
me for a sweetheart, an' they aint a boy that want
Sukey. Now, las' Sunday, at church, 'fore th|
meetin' begun, you know, I rolled a May-appl
'cross the floor to Mandy Bradshaw, — the pretties
kind of one. She looked at it a minute, then se
up straight as a crock with her chin in the air, ar
looked like she would n't tech that mandrake-appl
with a forty-foot pole. Then, pretty soon, Willi
Harnston he rolled her one, an' mine was a hea
better, an' she pitched after it like she was goin
break her neck. An' she smelt it, and rolled it i
her hands, an' patted it an' kissed it, an' tied it u
in her handkerchief, an' loafed roun' with it a
sorts of ways, all through meetin'. An' I 'm bettt
lookin' than Bill Harnston the best day he eve
saw. Folks think we aint any first family."

"' I '11 let um know better ! " Silvy said, pantin
and the perspiration starting. " De Thompsons
de bery fustis fam'ly. Neber wus no sich pufficl
lady in dese pauts ez you' gran'ma Thompson, ari
you' maw is a tolerbul puffick lady yit, dough her
been gwyne ter wrack an' ruin eber sence he
married inter dis Coleman fam'ly. I tole Mis
Lizbeth so, but her jis would morry you' paw, an
dat's jis what 's de matter. Laws ! I wus so shann
uv her, 'cause we wus boff young ladies togedder
I aint neber helt my head up ez high sence."

" Well, you hold it tolerbul high yet. You wait
into church like you owned the meetin'-house an
all the congregation and the circuit-rider to boot."

" Law, honey, you oughter seed ole mistiss, you
granmaw Thompson, walk inter church! My
stars ! "

" Well, go 'long. Aunt Silvy. I 've heard enougl
about my grandma," Marley said. " I Ml nevei
get dressed."

" Law, honey, aint I gwyne ? I 's been gwyne tei
go dis eber so long, but yer kep talkin'. 'Taint
manners to go while company 's talkin'. I reckons
yer better go on ter mill peaceable, 'cause it's right
ter do you' duty. But when yer gits back, come
roun' ter Aunt Silvy's cabin ; may be she '11 hab
sumpin good for yer."

"Of course you will; you 've always got some

8 7 6.]

STORY OF A "TOLERBUL BAD BOY.

hing good," Marley said as he shut the door on
ler retreating figure.
A half-hour later, Marlborough, seated on a sack
f corn, was mounted on black Betts, jogging along
ihe mill road, with a manner apparently docile.
ii!ut ceaselessly his heart was saying, "I wont! 1
,/ont ! I wont do nigger's work ! "

You understand how it was. Marlborough lived
a a section where labor was held to be disreputa-
ble. It was not, then, the fatigue, or any other
physical discomfort that formed the basis of his
* ibjection to the mill-going. There was not the
'. lodily hardship connected with it that pertained to
:. 'possum-hunt, or a 'coon-hunt by moonlight, or to
ift half-day's fishing, or to a dozen things in which
"vlarley found exceeding enjoyment. He was fear-
j:ng what people would think and say. And his
[»ather was not superior to a like feeling. He would
Hiave been glad to have it thought at the neighbor-
ing plantations that his son did not work. There
ilvas a perpetual conflict between this false pride and
■lis avarice — his desire to overtake his neighbors in
|i he road to riches. He was a small planter and a
'ulgar man ; nay, worse than vulgar. Think of a
ather sending his son to the cotton-field, and or-
lering him to hide behind his hamper pick-basket,
>r among the thick cotton-stalks, if any neighbor
'Or stranger should chance to pass !

On this occasion, when he was sending Marl-
borough to mill, it was with instructions to avoid
:he big road, and keep to an obscure way where
Inhere would be less risk of encountering members
'of rich planters' families.

1 Marlborough was now traveling this obscure way,
peeping his eye strained ahead and his hearing
strained back, that no one might come upon him
Unawares. It was a lonely road, little traveled,
,vorn by the heavy rains, unrepaired, and impass-
ible to wheels. He felt tolerably secure against
encountering any one. But he was determined
-that at the sight of a human being, he 'd leave the
"•road and take to the woods ; run away, perhaps,
and never come back ; he 'd go away up North,
■where people could work without being disgraced.

He had been on the road some twenty minutes
only, when he heard hoofs behind him. Pulling
'his hat quickly over his eyes to guard against being
recognized, he turned his head over his shoulder, and
himself on the bag, and discovered General Brad-
shaw and his daughter Mandy, the young lady who
'had disdained the mandrake-apple rolled across the
church floor to her. Marlborough did not think
1 twice. With both heels he thumped black Betts'
sides, and dashed into the woods.

Burning with the revived memory of the slight
Mandy Bradshaw had put upon him, Marlborough
pressed on and on, heedless of the briars and tan-

gles that pierced and tore him. He got on rapidly,
for it was all familiar ground, making toward the
creek. Bravely old Betts beat through the thick
growth of cane and green-briar, of willow and of
holly gleaming with its scarlet berries. At length
Marlborough descried the broad creek. He plunged
into it, and turned the mule's head down-stream,
for the creek must run toward the river, and by
the river he must escape ; for at this time he had
made up his mind to run away for good. The day
was now so advanced that he knew he could not go
to mill and back; for all this time he had been
yoing away from the mill. He knew, too, if he
should return home without the meal, his father
would cowhide him. Altogether, it was a very
bad affair.

As far as possible Marlborough kept to the
shallow waters, but they nevertheless often rose
about the mule's flanks, obliging the boy to climb
to the corn-sack, and cling with hands and knees,
squirrel-like. Again, the faithful animal became
entangled in submerged brush, and floundered in a
fearful way. On one such occasion, the sack went
to the bottom of the stream.

In time, he came to the trunk of a tree, com-
pletely spanning the creek. After some moments
of consideration, he concluded that this was an
advisable point for loosing his mule, for he had
decided that it would but serve to draw attention to
him. He accordingly rode to the farther bank and
dismounted on a log, leaving the mule in the water.
Then he gave the creature the rein, and stood
watching his last friend turn the back on him. It
needed but a moment for the loosed animal to
make the other shore. Like a deer she climbed
the bank, shook her wet flanks, and then started
for the home which the boy was deserting. Tears
came into Marlborough's eyes. He thought of
little Sukey, and his mother, who had ever tried to
stand between him and his father's hardness ; of
Aunt Silvy, who always had "sumpin good" for
him stored away at her cabin. Now he was alone
in the wide world.

He stooped over the creek for a drink, dipping
the water with his hand. That he might leave no
tracks, he caught a piece of wood which had drifted
against the trunk, fallen across the stream, threw it
out on the bank, and walked to its end. Then he
leaped up, and, clasping an overhanging branch,
swung himself into a tree. This was one of a
thicket. He passed from one tree-top to another,
leaping and swinging like a squirrel. Reaching a
place where the leaves lay thick on the ground,
and where there was no mire to retain his foot-
prints, he slid to the ground, and pursued his way,
following the creek. Now and then he climbed a
tree for some late grapes the foxes had spared.

STORY OF A "TOLERBUL BAD BOY.

[NOVEMBE

or for the scattered persimmons, shriveled with
frost, but very sweet. About noon he came upon
a hazel-patch, where he secured quite a harvest of
nuts. On these he made his dinner, cracking them
between his strong teeth as he walked on and on
through thickets and brambles. The day was warm
and bright, although it was late in the year; but in
the dismal shades of this bottom, the air had a
mean, snaky chill that crept up and down his back,
and made him ask what he could do when night
should come.

The afternoon wore away as he was still following

down her beams through the stripped boughs o, ;.
the wood. Tired as he was, he determined to pu
sue his journey. On he walked, stopping occasion
ally for a rest. There were frequent startling noise
that made his heart beat fast ; but he encounterei
nothing alarming until about midnight, as h
judged the hour by the moon. He was emergin
from a thicket, whose passage had engaged all hi
energies, and was about to sink down for a moment',
rest, when he caught through the trees a sight tha
startled him as the foot-print startled Robinson C
soe. It was the glimmer of a light. A light in those

MARLEY AND OLD BETTS IN THE CREEK.

the stream that was to lead him to the great river
and to freedom. The black night closed around
him, and he was alone in the strange, gloomy for-
est. He was too weary to feel alarm ; the chill air
made him tremble ; he lay down on the damp
ground, his back to a huge cypress-trunk, and his
thought with his warm bed in the attic at home.
In spite of the cold and strangeness, he fell into an
uneasy sleep, which was haunted by boisterous
interviews with his father. He woke shortly with a
cry that sent a night-bird fluttering through the
branches. He was numb and stiff, and very
wretched. The moon had risen, and was sifting

dreary woods! It meant that some human being:
was near. Much as he dreaded the lonely shades,
and the cold, and the strange noises, he dreaded
yet more the sight of man. Alas for him who
must hide from the face of his fellows ! Perhaps
this light meant that he was in the very clutches of
pursuers whom his father had sent out for his capt-
ure ; or it might be that he had come upon the
haunt of a runaway negro. He determined to ascer-
tain, if possible, what his danger was. Cautiously
he advanced in a circuit on the light, keeping it
between him and the creek, that he might have an
open chance for flight, should it become necessary.

,6.]

STORY OF

TOLERBUL BAD BOY.

2 9

!'? He was not long in attaining a point from which
s eye commanded a view of the light, and of a
nited open space about it. There, clearly defined,
as the figure of a man — a negro man — poking and
ending the fire. Marley saw him laying some-
»ing on the coals, and soon there were borne to
ie hungry boy the savory odors of broiled bacon.
ow his mouth watered ! How he longed to put
,s shivering back to the glowing fire ! How com-
Ttable things did look there ! How he did envy
Hat poor fugitive negro ! How would it do, he
iked mentally, to reveal himself to the black, and
take common cause with him against man and
loodhounds?

But he did not yet feel reduced to extremity.
»th many a lingering look at the cheerful light,
e passed on, and soon it was lost to his vision.
'he moon was his friend during the night, not set-
ng till the dawn of day. By this time Marlborough
>as foot-sore and faint, almost dead, as he verily
elieved ; but he staggered on till the sun came up
trong and bright. Then he gathered some arm-
jls of the dryest leaves to be found, and made a
ied, which seemed very soft to his weary limbs.
ie might have slept in his comfortable nest all day
nad not the pangs of hunger waked him. Nuts,
>ersimmons, and grapes, these were the only edibles
he stripped woods afforded him, and these were
cant and difficult to find. To-day was hog-killing
ime at home. Thoughts of spare-ribs, and sau-
iages, and pigs' feet, and livers, and kidneys, and
jigs' tails, haunted him. Even the disreputable
:hitterlings in which the poorly-fed negroes in-
dulged appeared to his thought as tempting dain-
:ies ; and the crisp "cracklings," — he felt as if
ie could eat a big kettleful of them. A dozen
of them would have bought his birthright, or his
anything else. He made a mental inventory of
A.unt Silvy's good things, — hominy, sweet-potato
biscuit, pumpkin bread, corn-dodgers. Back and
forth they all passed through his thought, tan-
talizing the famished stomach till it felt despe-
rate. He kept himself on the keen watch for any
chance food. He saw a squirrel run out from a
hollow trunk. Perhaps that was Bunny's store-
house. He hastened eagerly to investigate. Alas
for your industry and providence, poor squirrel !
The boy's hungry eyes have discovered your hoarded
wealth.

A 'possum waddled on its short legs up a winter
huckleberry-tree, whose bright little berries sparkled
in the sunshine like points of jet. It ran out on a
low side branch in pursuit of some stray berries ;
but the limb bent beneath its fat proportions, and
it lay quite still, hugging the swaying branch.
Seizing a long stick, Marlborough administered
some sturdy blows which brought the 'possum to

the ground with a heavy thud, where it lay curled
up -with eyes shut, playing dead, as 'possums will.
A few more good strokes, and the poor 'possum's play
became reality. Marlborough slung it across his
shoulder ; he scarcely knew why, for he could
hardly hope for a chance of cooking it. He trudged
on as rapidly as possible. In the afternoon, clouds
began to gather, and the air grew cold and search-
ing. It became very dark; the vision could not
penetrate one inch ahead. For a few moments,
the boy groped his way with outstretched hands.
Encountering a tree, at length, he seated himself
at its base, and fell into an uncomfortable doze.
When he woke, it was to find that the clouds were
broken, and the light of the risen moon was strug-
gling through the rifts. Inspirited by this, he re-
sumed his journey. A few hours more of travel
brought him to a coal-kiln.

The coal-kiln constitutes one of the chief mines
from which the slave derives his pocket-money.
The green wood is cut and laid in ranks, covered
with earth, then fired, and allowed to burn slowly.
This makes charcoal, which is sold to the black-
smiths.

At the kiln, Marlborough warmed his chilled
limbs. Then he determined upon a midnight feast
of barbecued 'possum. With his pocket-knife he
dressed the game, or undressed it, as Aunt Silvy
always insisted the process should be characterized.
Then he dug a hole in the ground, floored it with
coals, and suspended the animal over the glowing
surface. In due time the cooking was accomplished,
and Marlborough ate and ate until he was tired
of 'possum. Yet he tied in his handkerchief the
remnants of his feast, hung it on his arm, and
renewed his journey, it being by this time morning.
He still followed the creek, seeing no one but a
negro man at a distance, busily engaged in fishing.
In about twenty minutes he reached a rail fence
inclosing a cotton-field. As he was deliberating
his farther course, Marley heard footsteps, and, by
the path that followed the fence, he saw a negro
man approaching. There was no chance to escape
observation, so Marlborough put on a bold face,
and advanced to meet the negro, who was evidently
the man he had seen fishing.

"Good-day, mahs'r," said the man, lifting his
cap.

" Howdy, uncle ! " returned Marley. " I believe
I 'm turned round, so I don't know my way to the
road. How far is it to the road ? "

"Which road you arter, massa? De Turnpike
or de Buzzard-Roos' Road ? "

" Which is the best ?" asked Marley, feeling his
way.

" Boff roads is tolerbul missible, specially dat
Buzzard-Roos' Road, all cut up wid cotton-wagins ;

3°

STORY OF A "TOLERBUL BAD BOY.

[November,

but I reckons, arter all, de Buzzard-Roos' Road is
peffcrbulest. I went de Turnpike de las' time I
tuck a load er cotton, an' it look like sometimes
when a wagin got stuck in one dem mud-holes dat
it gwyne ter take a string uv mules a mile long to
fetch her, an' den dey wouldn't fetch her."

" How long does it take you to make the trip
with a cotton load?" Marley asked.

He was satisfied that he was now at no great

fer a quarter of a mile ; may be a little fudder,—
'bout a mile an' half, I reckons. Den yer take
crosst de field ; den yer sees a big pussimmons-tree
dat aint got no pussimmons on ter it, dough dar's a
squerl nes' in it. Go a little way to'a'ds dat tree
den keeps on a little fudder, and dar yer fines z
paff; yer don't take dat paff ; yer keeps on ag'in
tolerbul fer ; den yer turns to de lef, an' dar yei
fines anudder paff. Dat las' paff yer takes, an' yei

distance from
the city, and
he expected
by the answer
to this ques-
tion he would
be able to
judge how dis-
tant he was.

"Well, I reck-
ons it's 'bout fif-
teen miles, an'
I mos' ginirly
totes eight bales

an' "

Marley inter-
rupted him, not
noticing that his
question was yet
unanswered, since he had obtained the information
he desired.

" Can you tell me how to get to the road ?"

" To be sartain I kin. Yer jis follows dis fence

sticks to it tell yer comes ter a big black-jack tree ;
den yer lebes de paff an' goes a straight line to'a'ds
sunset, an' dar yer fetches de Buzzard-Roos' Road,
an' it's a heap easier ter fine den de Turnpike."

" Can't you go with me a piece ?" Marley asked,
completely bewildered.

" Law, massa, I heap ruther go dan not; but I's
de busiest nigger yer eber did see sence yer wus
bawn. I 's bin hard at work fishin', and now I 's
ot ter go an' kinul up my coal-kill. Mus' get
dat charcoal ter town 'fore Christmus ; den I 's got
ter tote all de mules on dis plantation ter water :
'sides dat, I got ter git married to-night, an' I got
ter make up a fun'ral discou'se 'fore Sunday. My
las' wife 's been dead gwyne on six weeks, an' hei'
fun'ral aint neber been preach' yet."

" Well, give me the directions again."

When the negro had complied with this request.
Marley's bewilderment was complete.

He, however, after a tedious walk, reached the
Buzzard-Roost Road, as a friendly sign-board an-
nounced. He experienced some quaking as he
came upon the busy ground. Before and behind,

i 8*6.]

STORY OF A "TOLERBUL BAD BOY

s far as the eye could reach, were two lines of
1/agons to the right and to the left. One line
(paded with cotton was moving toward the market,
he other wagons were homeward bound with gro-
ceries for the plantations. He was apprehensive
ihat among those hundreds of negro teamsters,
here might be some neighbor's slave to whom his
ace was familiar; and his apprehensions were well
bunded. At the neighborhood church, the plant-
ers' families, including the slaves, were wont to
issemble. As the whites were so greatly in the
ninority. almost every one was known to hundreds
of negroes whom he did not recognize.

Marley was debating the advisableness of taking
the woods again, when the thought flashed
hrough him that Jim himself. — Aunt Silvy's Jim, —
with wagon and mules, was somewhere on this very
-oad. His father always sent the cotton by the
Buzzard-Roost Road, though five miles farther than
by the Turnpike, to save tollage. Marley kept
llong the road, calculating the probabilities of
meeting his father's team, with a fascinated desire
to get sight of it without being himself seen.

Before long, he became interested in watching
the efforts of a group of negroes to extricate a
stalled wagon from a mud-hole. Mules from other
wagons had been hitched to this unfortunate one
until there were ten. Three negro teamsters, with
long, heavy whips, cracking and lashing, were
haranguing the ten brutes with such a volley of
gees, haws, whoas, get-ups, etc., as would have
bewildered the very clearest head under those long
ears. Three other negroes, with fence-rails as
levers, were prying at the front wheels of the
wagon, which were almost lost in the mire.

" Now, all togedder, boys ! " cried one of these
negroes. " Heave to ! Hurray! Her budged jis
now. Whip up dem mules dar, an' we '11 fotch
her."

The mules strained and plunged, but yet the
wagon stuck.

" You all stop dat dar larrypin dem dar mules,"
bawled an outsider. " Don't yer see he's a-comin',
an' fotchin ole Boss? Jis put dat mule in de lead,
an' he '11 tote you all outen dat dar heap sooner 'n
yer kin say Jack Roberson."

Marley's heart leaped to his mouth. Boss !
That was the name of a Coleman mule ! He had
named it himself, because it would work only in the
lead, and there like a hero.

"Tote 'long dat mule, Jim," called the negro.

Jim ! Marley stood for a moment, too confounded
to think out a course of action. A kind of fascina-
tion kept him there, straining his eyes for a sight
of Jim. There, sure enough, he was, the identical
Jim with " yaller eyes."

A sight of the familiar face acted on Marley like

a shake to a night-walker; it brought back his
senses. He dived behind a neighboring wagon, for
the whole line of teams was waiting on the stalled
vehicle. But he was too late ; he was sure of it ;
he had seen the " yaller eyes" looking straight
into his face.

The negro, remembering that things were un-
pleasant for Marlborough at home, immediately
conjectured that the young master had run away,
as he had often threatened. He gave old Boss up
to his task of totin' the stalled wagon out of the
mire, and went over to where a pair of legs under
the wagon-body betrayed Marley's whereabouts.

The boy heard a footstep beside him, turned,
and with a great heart-throb saw Jim's face close
beside his own. Would Jim tie him up and carry
him back home ? Would he tell everybody that
was Mahs'r Marley, and that he was a runaway?
Or would Jim befriend him and help him forward?

"What yere doin' yere, Mahs'r Marley?" Jim
asked in a low, confidential tone. " Is yer bruck
traces ? "

"Yes," said Marley; and then he told Jim all
about it.

" Yer looks a heap older dan when I lef' home,"
Jim said. " Come 'long to de wagon an' git
sumpin ter eat."

Marlborough was much comforted in having a
friend with whom to talk over his troubles, and to
advise with.

" I don't see what yer gwyne ter do 'less yer hab
some money," said Jim.

" If I only did have some ! " Marley replied.
Then he looked at Jim steadfastly, as though
taking his measure. It was true — the boy had
grown old. Three days before, he could n't have
spoken this :

" Say, Jim, suppose you go 'long with me. I '11
sell the mules an' wagon, an' we '11 get on a boat,
an' go 'way off, up North somewhere. Then we '11
both be free. I 'm a slave at home as much as
you are."

" I'll tell yer what, Mahs'r Marie}'. I made up my
min' long time 'go, 'bout runnin' 'way, an' gwyne
up Norf. I aint neber gwyne ter do it, kase for
why, a nigger don't hab no standin' up dar, an' no
'ciety. Dey aint no niggers scacely, an' de white
folks don't soshate wid urn, an' it 's mighty lone-
some. Den, in de nex' place, it 's so cole up dar.
Now dar 's Patrick's Sam, he runn'd 'way an' went
to Canady. Den he come back ter somewhars, an'
got cotched, an' wus fotched back to his master.
Yer jis oughter hear dat nigger talk. He says it's
jis es cole dar fouf July es it is yere Christmas.
Goodness gracious an' gracious goodness ! I don't
wishes ter go ter no sech place. 'Sides dat, he
could n't git nuff ter eat. He did n't hab no

STORY OF A "TOLERBUL BAD BOY.

[November,

puffession, 'cept ter raise cotton, an' of course he
could n't make no money, 'cause dar aint no cotton
up dar; de white folks work dar, an' don't lebe
nuffin at all fer de niggers ter do. 'Sides dat, ag'in,
I 's 'gaged ter git married. Lucindy could n't spaw
me. An' I don't want ter lebe mammy, an' Mistiss
nuther, an' Miss Sukey, an' my udder soshates.
'Sides all dat, Mahs'r trus' de mules an' wagin ter
Jim, an' Jim 's gwyne ter tote um back ter him,
show 's yer bawn."

"That's right, Jim," Marley said, cordially;
"but I don't know how I '11 make my way without
money."

Jim ran his hand in his pocket and drew out a
greasy little bag of buckskin, tied with a leather
string.

" I puzzents yer wid dis," he said grandly, and
he poured into Marley 's hand a silver quarter, three
dimes, and two five-cent pieces."

Marley didn't refuse it. He said, " Thanky,
Jim ! You '11 get this back sometime. I 'm goin'
to be a rich man one of these days ; then I '11 buy
you an' set you free."

" I reckons I might take up a susscription fer yer
when I gits home, 'mung our black folks. Dey all
likes yer. Yer could wait roun' till I gits back.
Moster 's gwyne to sen' me straight back wid anud-
der load er cotton. Yer jis wait yere, an' see ef I
don't bring yer sumpin."

They talked this plan over for some time, and
Marley finally agreed to wait, if he found no good
chances offered for getting away to the North. Jim
was to caution the black people to secrecy. Marley
knew he could depend upon them in any plan
against Mr. Coleman. The cotton-shed of James
Savage, Mr. Coleman's commission merchant, was
decided upon as the place of meeting. Then the
two separated, Jim to return home, Marley to go
forward to the city.

I do not intend to tell how he passed the time
after reaching Memphis, waiting for Jim's re-appear-
ance; how he had to economize, that his purse
might not get emptied; how every effort to get
work on the up-river boats failed.

After five or six days, he might have been seen

hanging about James Savage's commission house,
or shed. This was crowded with cotton bales,
piled to the very roof. On some of these he read,
with a strange sensation, his father's name.

Almost his last penny was spent when, one after-
noon, about three o'clock, he saw far up the street
a team that had a familiar look. As it drew nearer,
his hopes were realized ; it was his father's, and
there was Jim. Marley's spirits went up like a
balloon ; he hastened to meet his ally.

" I 's got sumpin fer yer," were Jim's first words.
"Mammy sent yer heap er things;" and bundle
after bundle was delivered into Marlborough's eager
hands. He climbed on to a home cotton bale, and
opened them.

They contained, in the main, articles of his cloth-
ing. One bundle, however, showed a collection of
edibles — beaten biscuit, a huge yam potato, and
a half yard of sausage. While asking questions
about home, he made a substantial meal, and then
he crowded between the bales, and changed his
clothes, when he felt more respectable, especially
as he put into his pocket the money which Jim had
raised for him among the black people.

" They all feels mighty bad 'bout yer," Jim said,
"speshly Mistiss an' Miss Sukey, an' Mammy.
Mammy says it 's gwyne ter kill you' maw. Hei
looks mighty downhearted, an' you' paw does too.
Never seed Mahs'r look so put out sence I wus
bawn ; an' Miss Sukey, her cries all ze time 'bout
yer. But I muss go 'long now; got ter git eight
miles to'a'ds home ter night. Reckon Mistiss '11 bi
more sati'fied when I tells her I seed yer."

"Yes, I reckon so. Tell mother, howdy, an;
Sukey too. An' tell Aunt Silvy, howdy, an' all the
black folks ; an' father, if you 've got a notion to.
I don't reckon I '11 ever see any of them any
more."

Marley was crying.

" Law, Mahs'r Mawley ! ef I wus yer, I 'd stop di^
foolin', an' go back home fas' ez ole Boss could toti
me. I wouldn't go up Norf no more 'n nuffin
You' maw's cryin' arter yer, an' Miss Sukey, an
Mahs'r '11 be better ter yer, show's yer bawn."

What do you guess ? Did Marley go back?

8 7 6.|

SEA -FOAM.

Foam of the sea ! Foam of the sea !
Stay ! — we are weary of calling to thee ;
Weary of hearing the ceaseless beat
Of thy silver-sandaled, unresting feet,
Hither and thither, and o'er and o'er,
Along the level of white sea-floor,

For evermore !
Thy gauzy garments have swept so near
Our outstretched hand, but to disappear

And slide away

In a silver spray.
While laughter ripples along the shore,
And the 'broidered silver is changed to gray

Sea-foam, rest !
Safe in this circling arm of rock.
Away from the breakers' shout and shock,

Rest, O rest !
And tell us the story unconfessed
Through all the ages to mortal ear,
Locked from poet, and safe from seer

In the ocean's breast.
Tell us thy charmed history ;

Unravel the silver thread
Of the glittering tissue of mystery

Veiling forever thy head.
Why art thou wooing forever

The golden smiles of the sun, —
Wooing and winning, yet never
Staying thyself to be won ?

Low is the light in the west, —

Sea-foam, rest !

A PARABLE.

JNOVEMBEE.

A PARABLE.

By H. H.

Once there was born a man with a great genius
for painting and sculpture. It was not in this world
that he was born, but in a world very much like
this in some respects, and very different in others.
The world in which this great genius was born was
governed by a beneficent and wise ruler, who had
such wisdom and such power that he decided be-
fore each being was born for what purpose he
would be best fitted in life ; he then put him in the
place best suited to the work he was to do ; and he
gave into his hands a set of instruments to do the
work with.

There was one peculiarity about these instru-
ments ; they could never be replaced. On this
point this great and wise ruler was inexorable. He
said to every being who was born into his realm :

" Here is your set of instruments to work with.
If you take good care of them, they will last a life-
time. If you let them get rusty or broken, you
can perhaps have them brightened up a little or
mended, but they will never be as good as new,
and you can never have another set. Now you see
how important it is that you keep them always in
good order."

This man of whom I speak had a complete set
of all the tools necessary for a sculptor's work, and
also a complete set of painter's brushes and colors.
He was a wonderful man, for he could make very
beautiful statues, and he could also paint very
beautiful pictures. He became famous while he
was very young, and everybody wanted something
that he had carved or painted.

Now, I do not know whether it was that he did
not believe what the good ruler told him about his
set of instruments, or whether he did not care to
keep on working any longer, but this is what hap-
pened. He grew very careless about his brushes,
and let his tools lie out overnight when it .was
damp. He left some of his brushes full of paint
for weeks, and the paint dried in, so that when at
last he tried to wash it out, out came the bristles
by dozens, and the brushes were entirely ruined.
The dampness of the night air rusted the edges of
some of his very finest tools, and the things which
he had to use to clean off the rust were so powerful
that they ate into the fine metal of the tools, and
left the edges so uneven that they would no longer
make fine strokes.

However, he kept on painting, and making
statues, and doing the best he could with the few
and imperfect tools he had left. But people began

to say, ' ■ What is the matter with this man's pict
ures? and what is the matter with his statues
He does not do half as good work as he used to."

Then he was very angry, and said the people
were only envious and malicious ; that he was the
same he always had been, and his pictures and
statues were as good as ever. But he could not
make anybody else think so. They all knew
better.

One day the ruler sent for him and said to him :

" Now you have reached the prime of your life.
It is time that you should do some really great
work. I want a grand statue made for the gate
way of one of my cities. Here is the design ; take
it home and study it, and see if you can undertake
to execute it."

As soon as the poor sculptor studied the design,
his heart sank within him. There were severa'
parts of it which required the finest workmanship
of one of his most delicate instruments. That in-
strument was entirely ruined by rust. The edgtj
was all eaten away into notches. In vain he tried
all possible devices to bring it again to a fine sharp
edge. Nothing could be done with it. The most
experienced workmen shook their heads as soon as
they saw it, and said :

"No, no. sir: it is too late. If you had brought
it to us at first, we might possibly have made it
sharp enough for you to use a little while with great
care ; but it is past help now."

Then he ran frantically around the country, try-
ing to borrow a similar instrument from some one.
But one of the most remarkable peculiarities about
these sets of instruments given by the ruler of thi;
world I am speaking of, was that they were of nc
use at all in the hands of anybody except the one
to whom the ruler had given them. Several of
the sculptor's friends were so sorry for him that
they offered him their instruments in place of hi?
own ; but he tried in vain to use them. They were
not fitted to his hand ; he could not make the kind
of stroke he wanted to make with them. So
went sadly back to the ruler, and said :

"Oh, Sire, I am most unhappy. I cannot ex
ecute this beautiful design for your statue."

"But why cannot you execute it?" said tin
ruler.

"Alas, Sire!" replied the unfortunate man,
"by some sad accident one of my finest tools was
so rusted that it cannot be restored. Without that
tool, it is impossible to make this statue."

So hi

'■8 7 6.1

A PARABLE.

Then the ruler looked very severely at him, and
aid :

" Oh, sculptor, accidents very seldom happen to
he wise and careful. But you are also a painter, I
jelieve. Perhaps you can paint the picture I wish

have painted immediately, for my new palace.
Sere is the drawing of it. Go home and study
his. This also will be an opportunity worthy of
rour genius."

The poor fellow was not much comforted by this,

"or he remembered that he had not even looked at

J iis, brushes for a long time. However, he took

.he sketch, thanked the ruler, and withdrew.

It proved to be the same with the sketch for the

;, jicture as it had been with the design for the

i itatue. lb required the finest workmanship in

| oarts of it ; and the brushes which were needed for

| :his had been long ago destroyed. Only their

landles remained. How did the painter regret his

''"oily as he picked up the old defaced handles from

: :he floor, and looked at them hopelessly !

Again he went to the ruler, and with still greater
embarrassment than before, acknowledged that he
was unable to paint the picture because he had not
the proper brushes. .

This time, the ruler looked at him with terrible
severity, and spoke in a voice of the sternest dis-
pleasure :

1 "What, then, do you expect to do, sir, for the
'rest of your life, if your instruments are in such a
"condition ? "

"Alas! Sire, I do not know," replied the poor
man, covered with confusion.

^ "You deserve to starve," said the ruler; and
ordered the servants to show him out of the palace.
After this, matters went from bad to worse with
the painter. Every few days some one of his
instruments broke under his hand. They had been
so poorly taken care of, that they did not last half
as long as they were meant to. His work grew
poorer and poorer, until he fell so low that he was
forced to eke out a miserable living by painting the
walls of the commonest houses, and making the
'coarsest kind of water-jars out of clay. Finally his
'last instrument failed him. He had nothing left
to work with ; and as he had for many years clone
'only very coarse and cheap work, and had not been
able to lay up any money, he was driven to beg his
food from door to door, and finally died of hunger.
' This is the end of the parable. Next comes the
moral. Now please don't skip all the rest because
it is called moral. It will not be very long. I wish

1 had called my story a conundrum instead of a
parable, and then the moral would have been the
answer. How that would have puzzled you all. — a
conundrum so many pages long ! And I wonder
how many of you would have guessed the true

answer. How many of you would have thought
enough about your own bodies to have seen that
they were only sets of instruments given to you to
work with ? The parable is a truer one than you
think at first ; but the longer you think the more
you will see how true it is. Are we not each of us
born into the world provided with one body, and
only one, which must last us as long as we live in
this world ? Is it not by means of this body that
we all learn and accomplish everything? Is it not
a most wonderful and beautiful set of instruments?
Can we ever replace any one of them ? Can we
ever have any one of them made as good as new,
after it has once been seriously out of order? In
one respect the parable is not a true one ; for the
parable tells the story of a man whose set of instru-
ments was adapted to only two uses, — to sculpture
and to painting. But it would not be easy to count
up all the things which human beings can do by
help of the wonderful bodies in which they live.
Think for a moment of all the things you do in any
one day; all the breathing, eating, drinking, and
running ; of all the thinking, speaking, feeling,
learning you do in any one day. Now, if any one of
the instruments is seriously out of order you cannot
do one of these things so well as you know how to
do it. When any one of the instruments is very
seriously out of order, there is always pain. If the
pain is severe, you can't think of anything else
while it lasts. All your other instruments are of
no use to you, just because of the pain in that one
which is out of order. If the pain and the disor-
dered condition last a great while, the instrument
is so injured that it is never again so strong as it
was in the beginning. All the doctors in the world
cannot make it so. Then you begin to be what
people call an invalid ; that is, a person who does
not have the full use of any one part of his body ;
who is never exactly comfortable himself, and who
is likely to make everybody about him more or less
uncomfortable.

I do not know anything in this world half so
strange as the way in which people neglect their
bodies ; that is, their set of instruments, their one
set of instruments, which they can never replace,
and can do very little toward mending. When it
is too late, when the instruments are hopelessly out
of order, then they do not neglect them any longer;
then they run about frantically as the poor sculptor
did, trying to find some one to help him; and this
is one of the saddest sights in the world, a man or
a woman running from one climate to another cli-
mate, and from one doctor to another doctor, trying
to cure or to patch up a body that is out of order.

Now perhaps you will say, this is a dismal and
unnecessary sermon to preach to young people ;
they have their fathers and mothers to take care of

A PAR A BLE.

them ; they don't lake care of themselves. Very
true ; but fathers and mothers cannot be always
with their children ; fathers and mothers cannot
always make their children remember and obey
their directions; more than all, it is very hard to
make children realize that it is of any great impor-
tance that they should keep all the laws of health.
I know when I was a little girl, when people said to
me, "You must not do thus and thus, for if you
do, you will take cold," 1 used to think, ''Who
cares for a little cold, supposing I do catch one?"
And wdien I was shut up in the house for several
days with a bad sore throat, and suffered horrible
pain. I never reproached myself. I thought that
sore throats must come now and then, whether or
no, and that I must take my turn. But now I have
learned that if no law of health were ever broken,
we need never. have a day's illness, might grow old
in entire freedom from suffering, and gradually fall
asleep at last, instead of dying terrible deaths from
disease ; and I am all the while wishing that I had
known it when I was young. If I had known it,
I '11 tell you what I should have done. I would
have just tried the experiment at any rate, of never
doing a single thing which could by any possibility
get any one of the instruments of my body out of
order. I wish I could see some boy or girl try it
yet ; never to sit up late at night ; never to have a
close, bad air in the room ; never to sit with wet
feet ; never to wet them, if it were possible to help
it; never to go out in cold weather without being
properly wrapped up ; never to go out of a hot
room into a cold out-door air without throwing some
extra wrap on ; never to eat or drink an unwhole-
some thing ; never to touch tea, or coffee, or candy,
or pie-crust ; never to let a day pass without at least
two good hours of exercise in the open air; never
to read a word by twilight, nor in the cars ; rfever
to let the sun be shut out of rooms. This is a pretty
long list of " nevers," but "never" is the only word
that conquers. ''Once in a while" is the very
watch-word of temptation and defeat. I do believe
that the " once-in-a-while " things have ruined
more bodies, and more souls too, than all the other
things put together. Moreover, the "never" way

is easy, and the "once-in-a-while" way is hard
After you have once made up your mind " never"
to do a certain thing, that is the end of it, if you
are a sensible person. But if you only say, "This
is a bad habit," or "This is a dangerous indulgence;
I will be a little on my guard and not do it too
often," you have put yourself in the most uncom-
fortable of all positions ; the temptation will knock
at your door twenty times a day, and you will have
to be fighting the same old battle oyer and over
again as long as you live. This is especially true
in regard to the matter of which I have been speak-
ing to you, the care of the body. When you have
once laid down to yourself the laws you mean to
keep, the things you will always do, and the things
you will "never'" do, then your life arranges itself
in a system at once, and you are not interrupted
and hindered as the undecided people are, by won
dering what is best, or safe, or wholesome, or too
unwholesome at different times.

Don't think it would be a sort of slavery to give
up so much for sake of keeping your body in order.
It is the only real freedom, though at first it doe;
not look so much like freedom as the other way.
It is the sort of freedom of which some poet sang
once. I never knew who he was. I heard the line:
only once, and have forgotten all except the last
three, but I think of those every day. He was
speaking of the true freedom which there is ir
keeping the laws of nature, and he said it was likeS
the freedom of the true poet, who

" Always sings
In strictest bonds of rhyme and rule,
And finds in them not bonds, but wings."

I think the difference between a person whe
has kept all the laws of health, and thereby ha
a good strong sound body that can carry hin
wherever he wants to go, and do whatever hi
wants to do, and a person who has let his bod;
get all out of order, so that he has to lie in bed halt
his time and suffer, is quite as great a differenc
as there is between a creature with wings and
creature without wings. Don't you ?

And this is the end of the moral.

'876.]

F A R A W A V .

FAR AWAY.

One night, in the bright, warm summer,
Mother went — oh so far away !

So very far ! Yet quite near her,
In my pretty bed I lay.

She did not hear when 1 called her-
She was gone so very far !

I lay and wished I was only
The moonlight, or a star ;

She stood and looked from the window,
In the moonlight cool and clear ;

I called her as she stood there,
But mother did not hear.

Then she might soon have known it —

How lonely I was for her.
But I waited, and waited, and waited,

And mother did not stir.

At last she turned, and, smiling,
Said, "You awake, little Jack?"

But I only could sob and kiss her —
So glad that mother was back !

BORROWING A GRANDMOTHER.

[November

CARLO AND THE MILK-PAN.

'can it be possible that that pan contains milk?"

' IT does ! IT DOES !

&#sil

'my! this is just glorious!".

BORROWING A GRANDMOTHER.

By Helen Angell Goodwin.

"We sha' n't have much of a Fanksdivin 'is
year," said Sophie to her doll. " You know, Hitty,
how we all went to dranma's last year, and now
she 's dead and buried up in 'e dround, and we
sha' n't see her any more, ever and ever, amen ! "

Hitty looked up into the little mother's face, with
eyes open very wide, but she did not answer a
word. Perhaps she was too sorry to talk, and per-
haps she was n't a talking doll ; at any rate, she
kept still.

" Last year." resumed Sophie. " we wode 'way
out into 'e country, froo big woods wivout any
leaves 'cept pine-leaves, and along by a deep wiver,
and 'en we came to dranma's house, and Uncle
Ned came out to 'e date and carried me in on his

s'oulder, and dranma took off my fings and davt
me some brown bread and cheese 'at she made al
herself; but I did n't see her, 'cause folks make
cheese in 'e summer, and 'at was Fanksdivin time.
I went out to see Uncle Ned milk 'e cow, and hac
some dood warm milk to drink, and mamma pul
on my nightie and put me to bed in such a funm
bed, not a bit like ours at home 'at you can rol"
over and over in and not muss 'em up a bit ; but ii
was a feaver bed. — live geese feavers, dranma said. 1
— and I fought 'ey would cover me all up, I sank
down in so. In 'e morning, Uncle Ned built a fire
in 'e dreat bid oven ; and when it dot all burnec'
down to coals, dranma poked 'em wiv a dreat lonj:
shovel, so heavy I could n't lift it ; and by and bv

A ,8 7 6.]

BORROWING A GRANDMOTHER.

she shoveled and scraped 'em all out into 'e fire-
ii place ; and 'en she put in 'e chicken- pie to bake,
j and a big turkey wiv stuffing, and a pudding wiv
lots o' waisins in it, and shut 'e door. 'En every-
body 'cept mamma and me went off to church, and
after 'at we had dinner.

" You 'd ought to been 'ere, Hitty, to see it ; but
you was n't made den, so course you could n't.
There was all 'at was in 'e oven, and bread and
cheese, and cake and cranberry-sauce, and apple-
pie and mince-pie, and punkin-pie and custard —
no, 'ere was n't any custard, for 'e cat dot at it, and
lin 'e evening we had walnuts "

Just here, little " Lady Talkative,'' as papa often
called her, was interrupted by the voice of her
mother from the kitchen, where she and Aunt Ruth
staid most of the time lately, getting ready for
Sophie's uncles and aunts and cousins, who were
invited for Thanksgiving.

In spite of the motherly feelings supposed to be
strong in the breasts of little girls, poor Hitty
landed, head first, in the plaything box, as Sophie
sprang up to answer her mother's summons.

" Sophie, I want you to go over to Mrs. Green's
and borrow a nutmeg for me. Go quickly as you
can. I don't believe in borrowing," she added to
Aunt Ruth, " but two of mine proved poor ones,
and the cake cannot wait."

By this time, Sophie's sack was on and her bon-
net tied. She was an active little creature, very
bright for a child of her age, and it was her delight
to be of use in domestic affairs.

" Now, what is your errand, Sophie ? "

"Please, Mrs. Dreen," began the child, in ac-
cordance with previous instructions, " my mamma
would be much 'bliged if you will lend her a nut-
meg."

" That will do. Now run."

The little feet trotted as fast as they could across
the two yards and in at the side gate of Mrs.
Green's ; but the busy brain went so much faster
than the flying feet, that the child blundered in her
errand.

" Please, Mrs. Dreen, my mamma wants to
bo'ow a dranma for Fanksdivin."

Mrs. Green's eyes opened so wide, Sophie thought
she looked like Hitty, and wondered if they were
'"lations."

" What did your mother send for ? "

"A dran — No, 'at 's what I want mine own
self Oh dear ! I fordot what she does want, and
she 's in an awful hurry."

" What is she doing ? "

" Making cake, and it can't wait, she said so. I
know what it is, but I can't fink."

" Was it fresh eggs ? "

" No, ma'am."

" Some kind of spice ? "
" No, ma'am."
" What is it like?"

" Like a walnut, and you drate it wiv a drater. "
" Oh, a nutmeg ! "

" A nutmeg — 'at 's it ezactly. Funny I could n't
wemember" — and the blue eyes brightened behind
the gathering tears like the sunlit sky through a
rift in a rain-cloud.

Three minutes later, Sophie picked up her long-
suffering doll, and entertained her with an account
of the affair sufficiently minute to satisfy a New
York reporter, ending by asking Hitty's opinion.

"Oh, Hitty, wasn't it funny to tell Mrs. Dreen
mamma wanted to bo'ow a dranma ? I dest wish
I could, don't you ? I want one, more 'n anyfing.
Don't you s'pose I could ? I '11 ask Uncle Ned.
He knows 'most everyfing."

Uncle Ned was in his room writing when he
heard little hurrying footsteps on the stair, followed
by three little raps at the door. He pushed back
the inkstand, stuck his pen up over his ear, and
called out :

" Come in, Pussy. Push hard ; the door is not
fastened. "

" I 'm sorry to 'sturb you. Uncle Ned," began
the small lady, while she climbed up into his lap
and threw Hitty on the table, "but you must
escuse me, 'cause I dot a very 'portant twestion."
" Let us have it, little one."
" Can anybody bo'ow a dranma ? "
" Borrow a grandma ! That's a new idea ! "
"You shouldn't ought to laugh at me, Uncle
Ned, for I want one
weal bad for Fanks-
divin."

The tears came into
Uncle Ned's eyes, for
he was the youngest
son of the grandmother
Sophie mourned, and
the pain of loss had not
had time to soften. He
held her quite still for
a little, and then said,
softly :

"A- sad Thanksgiv-
ing we shall have this
year, my pet, and the
only way to make it a
little less sorrowful will
be to try and make
others happy. That
was always grandma's, way. I rather like your idea
after all. Your own dear grandmother is beyond
the tokens of love and gratitude we fain would
set before her, and why should we not make

IT S DICULOUS TO SEE EM
TOGETHER " (SEE NEXT PAGE).

BORROWING A GRANDMOTHER.

[November

some other child's grandmother happy to-morrow ?
Whose shall it be?"

'■ Let me see. Fanny Turner 's one. Her dran-
ma lives in a splendid drate house, and she 's dot
lots o' money and servants and everyfing she wants.
I dess we don't want her. Mrs. Allen — 'at 's two ;
but she 's dot lots o' dranchildren wivout us. Oh
my ! you could n't count 'em. If 'ey should all
come at once, 'ey 'd fill her little teenty tawnty
house wunning over full. Not any woom for we
folks, 'nless 't was in 'e door-yard."

Sophie stopped and thought a moment.

" Oh, I know ! " she exclaimed at last, the funny
gravity of the small features chased away by a sud-
den smile which lit up all the dimples. " Mamie
Hall ! she 's dest 'e one. She lives all alone wa-
iter dranma down by 'e bridge. 'Ey 're dweadful
poor, and Mrs. Hall works for 'e rich folks and
leaves Mamie all alone a'most every day ; but she 's
dood, and Mamie 's dood too, and her house is big
enough, only I dess we better carry somefing to
eat. for may be she has n't dot much baked."

" Always looking out for your stomach," laughed
Uncle Ned. '" We will go and ask mamma about it."

On the afternoon of that same day, Mamie Hall
sat by the window, wishing some one would come,
for she was very lonesome. Her grandmother went
early to help a neighbor, and charged her not to
leave the house till her return, as she expected
some persons to pay her some money, and they
might call when no one was in, and the money was
needed at once. She got along very well till her
knitting-work was done and her story-book read
through, and then she sat by the window and
watched the people passing. Hark ! Somebody
surely rapped. Mamie answered the summons,
and was delighted to see her little friend Sophie,
who said she could stay till night, and then Uncle
Ned would come for her again.

" Oh, I 'm so glad !" exclaimed Mamie. " Come
right in and take off your things."

Uncle Ned stepped inside to charge the children
to be careful about the fire — a charge which Mamie
rather resented, being eight years old and accus-
tomed to responsibility.

" I brought my doll," said Sophie, proceeding
to take off her things too.

" That 's right. I '11 get Lady Jane, and we will
have a first-rate time playing keep house. What
is your child's name ? "

" Sophronia Mehitable Feodosia Caroline," said
Sophie, slowly, and speaking every syllable with
precision.

" What a long name ! " laughed Mamie. " Do
you have to call her all that every time you speak
to her? "

'• Oh, no ! I call her Hitty for short, and if she 's

cross I call her Hit. Her first name is for me,- anc
'e next for Aunt Mehitable, and Feodosia was m)
dranma's name, and Caroline, my cousin, dave hei
to me."

" I am afraid she wont want to play with a rag!
doli," sighed the small hostess as she drew Lad;i
Jane from the rude cradle where she usually slepti
her little mother being too busy generally to attend
to her.

'■Oh, no!" cried Sophie. "I teach Hitty 'ai
when she 's dood she 's no better 'an a wag-doll 'aj
behaves herself, and when she 's naughty she : ^
worser, 'cause she's had better 'vantages."

" But she's all dressed up in silk and jewelry,
and Lady Jane has only a calico slip and a whiti
apron," said Mamie, just to see what her mite of:
visitor would answer.

" 'At don't make 'e leastest diffunce in 'e world.
All Hit's fine fings were dived to her. She is n't
pwoud a bit. If she was I 'd spank her. I s'ould n'l
for anyfing like her to be like Biddy Marty's dol
that lives in the brick grocery — so awful big and
pwoud. It 's 'diculous to see 'em together. Youi
child 's zactly the right size. And, dear me, how
clean she does keep herself ! I dess she don't pla\
in 'e dirt like my Hit."

"Oh, she is older, and has learned better. Bui
what ails your daughter's nose ? The skin seems
to be off."

" 'At 's where she bumped it 'is morning. She
fell wight into my playfing box." And then, in-
stead of telling how she threw her there herself, the
small fibber remarked : " She is dest bedinning to
do alone, and she dets lots o' bumps."

Hitty took all the implied blame very coolly, for
she neither blushed nor winked.

" What made you think to come and see me,
little Sophie ? I have been wishing you would ever
since the good times we had the day my grandma
worked for your mamma."

'• I fought of it long ado, and teased and teased,
but mamma would n't let me, till she had intwired;
about you to see if you was dood. I knew it all 'e
time, but she said she must ask some one who had 1
known you longer. She lets me play wiv anybody
'at's dood," added Sophie, with startling frankness,
"no matter if 'ey live in little bits o' houses, and''
have to wear calico dresses to church. But I came
now to bo'ow somefin. You '11 lend it to me, wont
you now ? "

" Yes, indeed, anything I can lend. But what
can I possibly have that you have not ? " glancing
inquiringly at her small stock of playthings.

Sophie leaned forward with her fat forefingeri
lifted in a ludicrously solemn gesture.

" Mamie, you've dot a dranma, and mine is all
dead and buried up in 'e dround."

: 7 6.J

" Yes, I have got a grandma, and the best one
1 the world too, but what has she to do with it ?
'ou surely cannot want to borrow her ! " and
lamic laughed at the very thought.

" Yes, I do," persisted Sophie, with the utmost
iravity. " You can't have Fanksdivin wivout a
ranma, more 'n you can Christmas wivout Santa
,'laus. You need n't link I 'm dreedy. I '11 lend
ou all my 'lations to pay. — papa and mamma, and
i.unt Wuth and Uncle Ned, and all 'e cousins 'at
tre coming. And here's a letter," she continued,

BORROWING A GRANDMOTHER.

" What is it ? " asked Mamie.

" An invitation for us to spend Thanksgiving
with Sophie and her friends. She feels so badly
about her grandmother, she wants to borrow me!
Will you lend me, Mamie, just for that one day ? "

" No. indeed," replied Mamie, decidedly. " I
should look well lending all the relative I have in
the world to a girl who has got a houseful of
cousins,'' and she threw her arms about the old
lady.

"She can be yours dest the same, Mamie,"

MAMIE DECLINES TO LEND HER GRANDMOTHER.

tugging at a tiny pocket until she produced a little
three-cornered note directed to Mrs. Hall.

" I don't really know what to make of it," said
(Mamie, " but when grandma reads the note, she
will find out, I guess."

So she crowded the corner of it carefully under
the edge of the clock for safe keeping, and the
playing went on. With riding out and visiting,
caring for Lady Jane's fever and Hitty's wounded
nose, as well as eating apples and doughnuts, the
afternoon flew swiftly by. They were surprised
when Mrs. Hall came in. Mamie instantly gave
her the note, which she read with a smile and a
tremor of lip.

pleaded Sophie. " Do. Mamie, let me call her so
for just one day."

'• Oh, you may call her so always, if that is all ;
but 1 must keep her too. I '11 not lend her at all,
but I '11 give you half of her to keep for your very
own.''

"Oh, will you ? will you ?" cried Sophie, dancing
with delight, never noticing that she held Hitty by
one foot, to the imminent danger of the rest of her
china body.

'• You 'd better keep the whole of me, and give
her, at the same time, the whole," said grandma.
" I shall love you none the less for taking this dear
little Sophie right into my heart of hearts."

FLOWERS IN WINTER.

[November

And so it was. The morrow was a very happy
day. Sophie introduced Mamie as her new sister,
and she was heartily welcomed by all the cousins,
big and little. After dinner, the "new grandma,"
as all called her, told them wonderful stories about
the times when she was young, and Sophie would
not part with her till she promised to spend the
Christmas holidays with them.

But before the Christmas holidays the " new

grandma" died. It was sudden. She was sicl
only a week. Sophie's friends cared for her ten-
derly ; and just before the end, her father took the
last care from the dying woman's heart by promis
ing to care for Mamie as if she were his own.

So Mamie and Sophie are adopted sisters now
and though they are grown-up ladies, they nevei
forget how the good God provided for the fatherless
through Sophie's childish whim.

FLOWERS IN WINTER, AND HOW TO MAKE THE

MOST OF THEM.

S. C.

through and kill them as he did their mates. Sc
we pet and cherish the beautiful things, doing ai
we can to make them happy, and they reward U:
in their own pretty way by living twice as long a;
cut flowers in summer ever do.

There are various recipes for keeping bouquet
fresh. Some people stick them in moist sand;
some salt the water in the vases, and others warm
it ; others, again, use a few drops of ammonia. M\
rule is, to cool the flowers thoroughly at night.
When the long day of furnace-heat has made the
roses droop and their stems limp and lifeless, I clip
them a little, and set them to float in a marble
basin full of very cold water. In the morning they
come out made over into crisp beauty, as fresh and
blooming as if just gathered. All flowers, however,
will not stand this water-cure. Heliotrope blackens
and falls to pieces under it ; azaleas drop from their
stems, and mignonette soaks away its fragrance.
For these I use dry, cold air. I wrap them in
cotton wool, and set them on a shelf in the ice-
chest ! I can almost hear you laugh, but really I
am not joking. Flowers thus treated keep per-
fectly for a week with me, and often longer.

Many persons who are lucky enough to have
flowers do not at all know how to arrange them so
as to produce the best effect, while others seem
born with a knack for doing such things in just the
right way. Knack cannot be taught, but there are
a few rules and principles on the subject so simple
that even a child can understand and follow them,
and if you St. NICHOLAS girls will keep them in
mind when you have flowers to arrange, I think

E all can have flowers in
summer; but flowers in
winter are, to most of us,
a rare treat, only to be
indulged in occasionally.
Yet, I think we need them
more then, and enjoy them
more than at any other
time, for our northern win-
ters are so long and cruel
that without flowers we
are in danger of forgetting
that there ever was a sum-
mer. A bouquet never
seems so precious as on
one of those icy days when
the world is so hopelessly
frozen that it seems as if it never could bear another
green thing. We touch the roses and the pinks
with tender fingers and a feeling which we do not
have for garden flowers, prosperous creatures, who
take care of themselves and require none of our
love and pity. These few sweet winter blooms are
the survivors of a great massacre. Even now their
lives arc in danger, for if the window were to be
opened ever so little, winter would slip treacherously

'76- ]

FLOWERS IN WINTER.

^mss^^T

A TABLK KOUlH'KT.

iyou will find them helpful. Just as flowers are the
imost beautiful decoration which any house can
ihave, so the proper management of them is one of
the gracefullest of arts, and everything which makes
home prettier and more attractive is worth study
and pains, so I will tell you what these rules are in
the hope that you will use and apply them your-
selves.

1st. The color of the vase to be used is of impor-
tance. Gaudy reds and blues should never be chosen,
for they conflict with the delicate hues of the flowers.
Bronze or black vases, dark green, pure white, or
silver, always produce a good effect, and so does a
istraw basket, while clear glass, which shows the
graceful clasping of the stems, is perhaps prettiest
of all.

2d. The shape of the vase is also to be thought
of. For the middle of a dinner-table, a round
bowl is always appropriate, or a tall vase with a
saucer-shaped base. Or, if the center of the table
is otherwise occupied, a large conch shell, or shell-
shaped dish, may be swung from the chandelier
above, and with plenty of vines and feathering
green, made to look very pretty. Delicate flowers,
such as lilies of the valley and sweet-peas, should
be placed by themselves in slender tapering glasses ;
violets should nestle their fragrant purple in some

tiny cup, and pansies be set in groups, with no
gayer flowers to contradict their soft velvet hues ;
and — this is a hint for summer — few things are pret-
tier than balsam-blossoms, or double variegated
hollyhocks, massed on a flat plate, with a fringe of
green to hide the edge. No leaves should be inter-
spersed with these ; the plate will look like a solid
mosaic of splendid color.

3d. Stiffness and crowding are the two things to
be specially avoided in arranging flowers. What
can be uglier than the great tasteless bunches into
which the ordinary florist ties his wares, or what
more extravagant ? A skillful person will untie one
of these, and, adding green leaves, make the same
flowers into half a dozen bouquets, each more effect-
ive than the original. Flowers should be grouped
as they grow, with a cloud of light foliage in and
about them to set off their forms and colors. Don't
forget this.

4th. It is better, as a general rule, not to put
more than one or two sorts of flowers into the same
vase. A great bush with roses, and camelias, and
carnations, and feverfew, and geraniums growing
on it all at once would be a frightful thing to behold ;
just so a monstrous bouquet made up of all these
flowers is meaningless and ugly. Certain flowers,
such as heliotrope, mignonette, and myrtle, mix
well with everything ; but usually it is better to
group flowers with their kind. — roses in one glass,
geraniums in another, and not try to make them,
agree in companies.

5th. When you do mix flowers, be careful not to
put colors which clash side by side. Scarlets and

TASTE AND BEAUTY.

pinks spoil each other ; so do blues and purples,
and yellows and mauves. If your vase or dish is a
very large one, to hold a great number of flowers,

THE SUNDAY BABY

[November

it is a good plan to divide it into thirds or quarters,
making each division perfectly harmonious within
itself, and then blend the whole with lines of green
and white, and soft neutral tint. Every group of
mixed flowers requires one little touch of yellow to
make it vivid ; but this must be skillfully applied.
It is good practice to experiment with this effect. ■
For instance, arrange a group of maroon, scarlet,
and white geraniums with green leaves, and add a
single blossom of gold-colored calceolaria, you will

see at once that the whole bouquet seems to flasl
out and become more brilliant.

Lastly. Love your flowers. By some subtle sens,
the dear things always detect their friends, and fo
them they will live longer and bloom more free]'
than they ever will for a stranger. And I can tel
you. girls, the sympathy of a flower is worth win
ning, as you will find out when you grow older
and realize that there are such things as dull day:
which need cheering and comforting.

THE SUNDAY BABY.

By Alice Williams.

You wonderful little Sunday child !

Half of your fortune scarce you know,
Although you have blinked and winked and
smiled

Full seven and twenty days below.

"The bairn that is born on a Sabbath day" —
So say the old wives over their glass —

" Is bonny and healthy, and wise and gay !"
What do you think of that, my lass ?

For " Sunday's child" may go where it please.

Sunday's child shall be free from harm !
Right down through the mountain side it see

The mines unopened where jewels swarm !

O fortunate baby ! Sunday lass !

The veins of gold through the rocks you '1
see ;
And when o'er the shining sands you pass,

You can tell where the hidden springs may be

Health and wisdom, and beauty and mirth !

And (as if that were not enough for a dower)
Because of the holy day of your birth,

Abroad you may walk in the gloaming's hour

When we poor bodies, with backward look,
Shiver and quiver and quake with fear

Of fiend and fairy, and kelpie and spook.
Never a thought need you take, my dear —

And never a fiend or an airy sprite,

May thwart or hinder you all your days.

Whenever it chances, in mirk midnight,
The lids of your marvelous eyes you raise.

You may see, while your heart is pure and true
The angels that visit this lower sphere,

Drop down the firmament, two and two,
Their errands of mercy to work down her

This is the dower of a Sunday child ;

What do you think of it, little brown head,
Winking and blinking your eyes so mild,

Down in the depths of your snowy bed ?

'■6.)

PARTNERS.

By Emily Huntington Miller.

Tip was the older of the two. I can't really say
W old he was, and what is more, Tip himself
d n't know. He wore a man's coat and a pair of
ry small trousers, but neither fitted him. His
it was an old felt affair that he had picked up in
back alley, and his head seemed very much as if
might have been picked up with it.
Top was the other partner. It was Top who
ought the melon, because he had sold all his
ipers but one, and had an uncommon handful of
lange. The melon was cheap too, and only a
ifle spoiled, so the partners sat down on a stone
id ate it. Then Tip wiped his mouth on his
jat-sleeve and looked at Top, who had spread
is last paper over his knees, and was slowly spell-
lg out the news.
" There 's a row somewheres, but I can't make
lit which side is lickin' ; it 's the Turkeys or the
ther fellers. What be the Turkeys, Tip?"

" Base-ball fellers, I reckon ; them kind is great
t a scrimmage."

"And a freshet carried off a railroad-bridge.

'amado in Dubbs County ; blowed all the oats

own. Does oats grow on trees, Tip, or bushes?"

"Bushes, and kind o' limber."

" ' Tarrible catastrophe.' What would a catas-

rophe be, Tip ? "

" It's a kind o' jumpin' animal. Don't ye mind
he one we seen to the circus ? "
Top folded up his paper with a sigh.
The circus was the beginning of the partnership,
vhen the two boys, curled up together in a crockery-
:rate, had been awakened in the dusk of a May
norning by the long train of circus-wagons rum-
iling away into the country Half asleep, they fol-
owed on, keeping pace with the great brown hulk
hat strode with swaying trunk after the wagons,
ind glancing half fearfully at the awkward camels
.hat bared their great teeth viciously, as if they
.vould not at all mind making a mouthful of the
■:wo little vagabonds. Once a driver noticed them,
ind cracked his long whip at them ; but they only
fell back a few steps.

" I say, Tip, le's go on till it stops," whispered
Top ; and with a nod the bargain was concluded.

It was ten o'clock before the circus stopped, and
the boys, footsore and hungry, hung around the
wagons, getting plentiful kicks and abuse, which
was no more than they were accustomed to at
home, but rewarded by a glimpse of the animals
as thev were fed, and making a rare breakfast on a

loaf of bread that a girl in a dirty spangled dress
snatched from one of the wagons and tossed to
them.

Top had risen in the world since then. He had
left rag-picking and gone into the newspaper busi-
ness, and even picked up a little learning at the
night class in the newsboys' home. But he was
loyal to his partner, and often shared his good
fortune with him. He had a plan now for them
both.

" I say, Tip. le's you and me go to farmin'."

Tip looked at Top. took off his hat, turned it
over as if looking for an idea in it, and then put it
on again, and said nothing.

" There 's a chap comes down to the home told
us fellers if you go out West a bit, the Guvment
would let ye have a farm free, jest fer livin' on 't.
Best kind o' ground, too. We could raise things
to sell, besides havin' all the melons and stuff you
could swaller every day."

" Cm' on," said Tip, his mouth watering at the
thought. " Is it fur, out West, do ye reckon ? "

" A good bit ; but I Ye got some money, and we
can walk it easy. Git yer other shirt, an' we '11
start to-morrer mornin'."

That night Top drew all his money from the
deposit at the newsboys' home — three dollars and
sixty-five cents. The first thing he did was to buy
two clay pipes and a paper of tobacco. Then he
laid in a store of provisions, in the shape of a sheet
of stale buns, a triangle of cheese, and a dozen
herrings. Tip was on hand promptly, with his
other shirt in a wad under his arm. and the two
partners started " out West."

" May as well ride ten cents' worth," said Top,
paying fare for the two on an omnibus that ran to
the city limits.

Afterward, they walked on toward the open
prairie, breakfasting as they went, and adding to
their stores a turnip and a couple of tomatoes that
had jolted from some laden market-wagon. Miles
and miles of market-gardens, where women and
children were hoeing and weeding and gathering
vegetables. They stopped at one house and asked
for water, and a woman in a brown stuff petticoat
and white short gown offered them some milk in a
big yellow bowl, and a piece of black bread. A
boy was washing long yellow carrots by the pump.
Tip bit one, and liked it. Tip was always hungry.
Then they went on, and by and by they came to
the end of the gardens. There were great stubbly

PARTNERS.

[NOVEMBI

fields and a stack of yellow straw. They sat down
by this stack to rest, and then Top thought of the
pipes. The men whom he knew always smoked
when they rested at noon, and so he and Tip tried
it. They had tried it before with ends of cigars
that they picked up, and once Top had bought a
new cigar, a fifteen-center, and smoked it all, though
it made him fearfully sick. The pipes did not seem
to agree with them. Tip felt particularly uncom-
fortable, and wished he had not eaten that carrot.
They did not make any remarks about it, but pres-
ently they put away the pipes and went to sleep in
the sun. When they waked it was sunset and
growing chilly.

" No use to go any furder to-night," said Top ;
and they burrowed into the straw and were as snug
as two field-mice.

In the morning there were only a herring and two
very dry buns for breakfast ; but the partners had
seen much smaller rations than that in their day.
They asked for water again when they came to a
house, but the old lady who opened the door must
have been deaf. She only shook her head and
shoo-ed them away as if they had been two stray-
chickens. Next time they had better luck. A fat
little woman with rosy red cheeks gave them a big
basket to fill with chips, and when it was full she
brought them each a thick slice of bread and butter
and a great puffy brown doughnut. Afterward,
they drank at the well out of a sweet-tasting dipper
made of a cocoa-nut shell, and the woman looked
up from the bread she was kneading to nod and
smile as they went out of the gate. Next came a
long strip of woods, without any houses, and be-
yond that, open prairie again.

" I think this is about fur 'nough." said Top,
sitting down on a log. " I should kind o' like to
have our farm nigh to the woman that give us the
doughnuts. She 's a good one, she is."

"Well," said Tip, "seems to be lots of land,
and mighty scarce of houses. Le's take it half an'
half, woods and penary."

Now that the farm was located, the next thing to
be done was to build a house. Never did Western
emigrants find things more convenient, for near
the roadside lay a pile of rails that had once been
a fence about a hay-stack. These they dragged
into the woods, and proceeded to build a hut against
the trunk of a great tree. The result was not ex-
actly a palace, but at least it was clean and airy,
and they had slept in much worse quarters. They
made a bed of green boughs and spread Tip's other
shirt over it. Everything went well until Tip un-
dertook to climb a tree after some wild grapes. A
country boy would have known better than to trust
the old dead limb from which they dangled ; but
Tip never suspected that a tree could wear out,

until he found himself crashing headlong through
the branches to the ground. He lay there so quiet
that poor Top might as well have had no partner
at all. Top was frightened, but he did n't give it
up. He shook Tip and slapped him on the back
he even lighted a pipe and blew tobacco smoke in
his face, all of which remedies he had seen used
with success, though not upon people who hat
fallen out of trees. After a while, Tip began to
breathe again in a jerky fashion, and then he got
strength enough to groan dismally.

" Is it yer head ?" asked Top, anxiously. " Are
ye all right in yer bones ? "

" It 's me la'igs. and me spines is all smashed to
flinders," moaned Tip.

Top managed to drag his unlucky partner into
the hut ; but the bed was anything but luxurious,
and Tip was no hero to suffer in silence.

" Is it as bad as a whalin' ?" asked Top, meaning
to be sympathizing.

" Wuss," groaned Tip; but, after all, the sug-
gestion had some comfort in it.

" Tip," said his partner, presently, "be ye sorry,
ye come out West ? "

"No, not if I die," moaned Tip. "I seen a
feller die oncet, fallin' down a elevator."

Tip tried to get up, but fell back with fresh howls.

"Don't you give up the farm, Top; and you
can have all my clothes and my other shirt."

Top would have cried if he had known how,
but just then a man coming down the wood-road
stopped a moment to look and listen, and then
strode up to the queer little hut, saying :

" What in cre-a-tion "

" He's hurt," said Top, briefly nodding his head
at his partner.

"Hurt! I should think so! Who are your
and what are you doing here ? "

" We 're pardners, and we 've took up this farm,"
began Top ; but the man looked at the pair of
beggars and laughed in a fashion that threatened
to bring the rails down over his head.

" Well, well," he said at last, wiping his eyes on
his shirt sleeve, " if that aint the biggest joke."

Then he sobered down a little, and felt of Tip's
bones — and, in fact, Tip was not much else but
bones.

" No more meat 'n a ladder ! Well, well, well ! "
And he picked up poor Tip and marched away
with him, while Top followed meekly. It seemed
to him the man had oil seven-league boots, he got
over the ground so fast, while he could only limp
after, for Top was getting sore and stiff from tramp-
ing. By and by, they turned into a green lane
and came to the back-door of a house. The man
laid Tip on a bench, and a shaggy dog came and
sniffed at him.

PARTNERS.

" Molly Anderson ! " called the man, and some-
*idy came trotting briskly to the door, saying,
iWell, John ! " long before she came in sight.
It was the woman who had given them the dough-

THE PARTNKRS EL'ILD A H

tuts. Tip cried when he saw her, though he did n't
enow why, for he felt wonderfully glad.

Things were mixed up after that for a good many
iays, and Tip had queer fancies of going or. and
>n, trying to find the best kind of a farm to settle
down upon, until at last he waked up to find

himself on a clean bed in a great breezy garret,
with the pleasant little woman darning stockings
beside him. The man was there too, and he said,
in a cheerful voice : "They're made of cast-steel
and whip-cords, them
youngsters. He '11 be
right as a top in a day
or two."

" The other one is
Top," Tip tried to say,
but his voice was so
queer he did not know
it, and wondered who
had spoken.

In the end, the part-
ners concluded to give
up the farm ; but the
man who had be-
friended them gave
them both work for a
few weeks, and when
one day they rode back
to the city in a great
loaded market-wagon,
they felt far grander
than the Lord Mayor
for whom the bells
rang " Turn again,
Whittington ! "

It was grander yet
riding back again at
night, with the new
delight of returning
to a home and a wel-
come.

" Tip," said Top, as
they crept into bed, " I
aint never goin' back
to the city. When
they wont keep us
no more, and nobody
wont keep us, I 'm

goin' to start along the road, and keep on till I

come to somewheres. Roads is better 'n streets ;

they always goes to somewheres that they did n't

start from "

Top's voice died away, and Tip only answered

with a snore. The partners were asleep.

4 8

TINSIE S CONCLUSION.

[November,

TINSIE'S CONCLUSION.
By George Klingle.

" Dear me, what a wonderful hat ! feathers and
fine things ; just a pile ! "

" Yes," whispered Felice, trying not to look, yet
giving a little glance, for all, at the wonderful hat
on the majestic Mrs. Pendilly's head as she moved
up to her pew.

"She must be very thankful; don't you think
so, Felice?"

"Why?" whispered Felice, glancing up the
aisle.

" She has such a lot to thank for," said Tinsie,
looking down with a bit of a sigh at her own faded
dress. "I just wish I had a hat exactly, precisely
like that."

"Why, Tinsie Treppet ! don't you know you
would look like a fright with a hat like that ! "

But she checked the smile on her lips, and the
words she was just going to say, for she had not
come to church to talk to Tinsie Treppet, and so
she edged down closer to the pew door, and looked
on the other side of the church.

"Felice," whispered Tinsie, slipping after her,
"do you think I ought to thank for such mean
clothes."

" Mother says it is sometimes because God loves
us that He does not give us fine things, and that
He is good ; oh, so good ! to give us any at all."

" It 'pears to me He might have given them a
little better — even like Tebitha Brady's "

" Please don't, Tinsie," whispered Felice with a
worried look in her eyes; "God is so good, and
He hears you every word."

"Sure and true ! I never thought of it," said
Tinsie, involuntarily glancing around; "but may be
He did not hear because so many people are talking.
But here comes the minister to begin to thank, and
I don't know what to thank for, in my heart, you
know, unless it's for my new shoes."

" For George 's getting well." suggested Felice,
not quite sure if she ought to talk for Tinsie's bene-
fit or be silent.

" Sure and certain, I forgot that ! "

" And your father's getting work."

"Yes."

" And the lady being kind to your mother, and
giving her sewing, you know."

" I forgot."

" And your having something to eat every day
since last Thanksgiving."

" Yes, only we had n't many pies."

"And don't you know how you were lost, and
they found you, and brought you back ?"

" Yes, but I thanked the man for that, Felice."

" Mother says God put it into the man's heart to
be kind to you and to bring you back again."

" Well, I never would have thought of that !
Let me see how many things that makes ; and oh,
if I 'm to thank for all things like that, I can keep
on counting a heap ; there 's "

"Hush," whispered Felice softly, and drawing
Tinsie down on her knees.

"There's the pumpkin pie the baker sent for
dinner," continued Tinsie, unwilling to be sup-
pressed, but the next instant folding her little brown
hands tightly over her eyes, with a new resolution
to be still as well as thankful.

Felice tried to follow the service and be thinking
about the blessings; but in spite of herself, thought:
arising from Tinsie's question as to thanking for
such shabby clothes kept ringing in her head, and
every little while the feathers of Mrs. Pendilly's hat
would bob up so high and so 'fine that it was im-
possible not to be attracted by them from the
preacher and set to thinking about lots and lots of
things which, at another time, would have been no
harm at all ; but just now, in the middle of th
preaching, the praising and the praying, were very
distracting, and out of place altogether.

"I do so much want to be good to-day," sighed
Felice to herself; " I do so much want to think
only about the praises and the prayers ; " and tears
were quivering in her eyes before she knew it.
" My dress is not nice, I know, but then it will do :
and my hat — oh, if mother could know the wicked
thoughts I had been thinking about my hat, she
would say I never, never could expect any better
and yet I am thankful, too, for what I have," and
she turned aside that Tinsie, by her side, should
not see the tears, and whispered a little prayer,
quite apart from the prayers the minister was say-
ing, begging to be forgiven her thoughtlessness,
and helped to do better.

" I Ve been saying them all over," whispered
Tinsie as they arose from their knees; "every single
bit of a thing I could think of; but say, Felice.
don't you hope you '11 sometime have a hat like
Mrs. Pendilly's to thank for?"

" Tinsie Treppet ! I 'II never, never bring you to
any more Thanksgivings ! "

"Why, I've been thanking every minute of the

8 7 6.]

TINSIE S CONCLUSION.

jjrayer, except just when I 'd peep up, you know, " See the feathers, Felice," she commenced

imd then it was I got to hoping about the hat." again ; " were there ever any such before ! "

Felice frowned and shook her head, and gave Felice looked again in spite of herself, and, as

Tinsie a very gentle nudge, by way of reminder of she looked, the proud, vain face of Mrs. Pendilly

her duty ; but Tinsie kept straight on with what turned quite around within view.

she was saying, and then sat leaning back, gazing " I see the whole that mother was telling me

up at the windows of the beautiful church, and then now! It is having such fine bonnets and things

again at the wonders of Mrs. Pendilly's hat. that give people such faces ! " thought Felice, quite

Vol. IV.— 4.

A CENTENNIAL PEN-WIPER.

[November

startled with the thought, and, in an instant, en-
tirely content with her own plain attire. " I remem-
ber just what mother was saying about fine things;
she said they make the heart proud very often, and
a proud heart always spoils the face."

So glad was Felice to find herself quite content
after the struggle she had passed through in try-
ing to be truly thankful, that she whispered her
thoughts to Tinsie Treppet, and when, the next

minute, the vain, proud face under the fine fixin;
turned around again, Tinsie leaned eagerly fo
ward to take in at one view the whole of the ui
pleasantness ; then, suddenly clasping her hanc
over her little calico-covered heart, exclaimed ju:
under her breath :

" Felice ! Felice ! I rather wear a hood or a sui
bonnet forever than to have a hat and a face precii
like Mrs. Pendilly's ! "

A CENTENNIAL PEN-WIPER.

By Mrs. M. H. Jaquith.

This pen-wiper is not warranted to last a hun-
dred years, nor is it so fine that it can be used but
once in a century ; but it well deserves the digni-
fied name of " A Centennial
Bass-relief Portrait," even
while it lies upon papa's
library table in the humble
capacity of a wiper of pens.
And just now, while prep-
arations for fairs and gift-
making* are the order of
the hour, the readers of St.
Nicholas may be glad to
learn how to make one.

The first thing required is
an oval medallion of broad-
cloth, large enough to hold
the figure and leave a suit-
able margin. If it is to be a
pen-wiper, the edge of the
oval should be neatly pinked
or notched with a scissors,
and there should be several
duplicate layers of soft black
cloth under it, all secured
together by a stitch in the
center of the oval.

•• To make hare soup, first
catch your hare," is a safe
recipe, and perhaps I should
have said, first get your
face, a photograph nearly or
quite in profile — Washing-
ton, Adams, Jefferson, any
honored representative of the

olden time, or else a smoothly shaven face of the
present day will answer the purpose. Cut out the

* See "Letter-Box" of present number. — Ed

face neatly, leaving some of the card-board ove
the head and on the shoulders as a support,
which the hat and vest may be secured when th

proper time comes. The hair, which should b<.
sewed on after the figure is put together, is a flow-

76 1

A CENTENNIAL PEN-WIPER.

g wig of flax, or soft white wool, or cotton batting.

a queue is desired, it may be braided at the
ick and tied with a very narrow black ribbon.

Now come the various parts of the figure, the
litems of which can readily be obtained from the
icompanying diagrams. These patterns are to
|| cut out of card-board and covered neatly on one
■de, so as to present a proper effect when the com-
eted figure is laid upon the cloth background to
hich it is finally to be secured.

First comes the vest of buff satin, or merino,
isted over the card-board pattern. This and the
iat sleeve must be trimmed with very fine narrow
ihite lace, as shown in the picture. The knee-
■eeches are of buff or satin, the hose of white silk,
isteel on the card-board pattern, with a garter of
>ack or some good contrasting color to hide the
)ining. The black velvet shoe is cut around
le ankle to the shape indicated in the diagram,
isted over the silk stocking on the card-board and
immed when dry. Make the hat of black velvet
1 the same way. The dotted line of the diagram
I lows where a card is to be sewed on to represent
le flap of the hat when turned up. After the legs
re adjusted and firmly sewed to the vest, the coat
to be put on. This is of bright-colored silk velvet,
laroon, brown, or green; black would do nicely if
le centennial hero is intended only for a picture,
rovided you have a light background ; for that
latter, it might be, for a picture, mounted on white
r pearl-colored Bristol board. The coat is not
i, ned. Put the sleeve in place, adjust the- hand,
'hich is cut out of fine white card-board, and your
:gure is completed. If the face and hands have
een skillfully colored, so much the better. Gilt Ol-
iver beads may be used for the buttons, knee and
itioe buckles, and the star in the hat : or little
aetal ornaments from old fans can be employed
s istead of beads. A stiff broom straw will do for a
ane; stain it dark, and head it with a bit of tin-foil;
hen cut the pasteboard piece representing the end
f the sword, and cover it with foil, and hang it as
hown in the picture.

1 When your centennial portrait is finished and
lid upon its tinted card, or its pen-wiperbackground
f cloth, you will be surprised to see how really

effective it is. Of course great care and neatness
are required for getting the best results ; but what

THE PORTRAIT, FINISHED.

girl is not glad to take pains in making a pretty
present to hand to some loved friend or relative on
Christmas morning?

***-K

V'*K."

JACK-IN-TH.E-PULPIT.

[NoVtMBL

be saying something to the cluster of tiny bal
spiders that were clinging to her, probably assurin 1
them that there was no danger. Then she agai
examined her balloon, to make sure that all w:
right, and then broke off the gossamer rope. Tl(
little balloon gently rose before the breeze. M
friend wished the skillful maker and bold navig;
tor of the air a successful voyage, as she sailed 01
of sight, and he never saw her more.

JACK- IN -THE -PULPIT.

A NEW year begins for us this month, my chicks,
and we '11 greet it heartily, wishing it joy and use-
fulness and profit. According to the Little School-
ma'am, there are calendar years and solar years,
and I don't know how many other kinds ; but your
St. NICHOLAS year is a thing by itself. It begins
when the forests are shaking down their red and
yellow leaves and the children's hearts are begin-
ning to stir with the coming Christmas, — in the
grand old November when the winds start a won-
derful serial story, ''to be continued next month."

Talking of serial stories. I 'm told, though I
hardly can credit the wonderful news, that Mr.
Trowbridge — "Jack Hazard'' Trowbridge, "Young
Surveyor" Trowbridge — is to give you a great long
one this year, full of adventure, called

His Own Master.

So look out for it, my chicks. Deacon Green says
the name is enough in itself — and he means to read
every word of it.

Now you shall hear about

A BALLOON INVENTOR.

NOT Montgolfier, nor any other man, invented
this balloon ; but a tiny insect which makes no
noise in the world. A friend of mine watched her
at work making a balloon, then saw her take her
children and begin a journey in it. She was a
mother spider, whose family name I do not know.

Apparently she had become tired of her old
home and wanted to move elsewhere. So she spun
a little gossamer balloon, shaped somewhat like one
of the natural divisions of a walnut-shuck. As it
grew in size it would have floated away without her
had she not fastened it by ropes of gossamer to
the branch of a tree.

By and by, when all was done, she seemed to

FLOATING GARDENS

In the beautiful valley of Cashmere, among th
Himalayan Mountains, lies a lovely lake called Da
Floating about on its surface, sometimes carried b
the winds from one end of the lake to the othei
are numerous small islands, on which grow tl
fairest cucumbers and the most luscious meloi
known. The way in which these floating gardei
are made is very curious. All about the main short,
of the lake grow quantities of reeds, sedges at
water-lilies. When these grow very thickly td
gether, people cut them from the roots which hoi
them near the shore. The leaves of the plants ai
■ then spread out over the stems, making a sort (
trestle-work to support the soil with which it is ne^
to be covered. After this has been done, the seed
are planted and the floating garden is left to car
for itself until the fruits are ready for picking.

COSTLY CLOTHES.

The children in my part of the world come on
now and then with beautiful new dresses. I use
to think such things grew in houses just as flowei
grow on bushes, but I know better now, and I '
been told what they cost too. Yes, and I hear
the Little Schoolma'am reading out of a bool;
that in the time of James the First (of cours
you know who he was ; I did n't once) gentleme
wore suits of clothes that cost from one hundrc
thousand, to four hundred thousand dollars. Th
best way to get a good idea of this sum is to ima;j
ine every dollar a daisy, and then scatter them, i
thought, over a field. One that was mentione
was made of white velvet embroidered with did
monds ; and another of purple satin, embroidert
with pearls. Ladies' gowns to match these werj
embroidered, and cost two hundred and fifty do
lars a yard. The fashionable embroidery was
border of animals, filled in with spiders, worm:
rainbows, fountains, and other dainty design-
Lovely, was n't it ? I fancy ladies were n't so afrai
of a " horrid bug " in those days as they are now.

EATING NAILS.

YOU don't eat nails ? Well now, what do yo
call those round headed, little black things that yo
sometimes nibble so contentedly ? Cloves? Clove
according to the Little Schoolma'am, came from
French word that means a nail ; and they do loo
like a small nail, you must admit. By the way, a
you know the very cloves you ate last were prett
pink flower-buds when they were picked in tropic,
regions, and dried in the sun ? They were nevti
allowed to blossom, poor things !

"7«-J

TACK- IN -THE -PULPIT.

THE PET OF THE REGIMENT.

' Dfar JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT : As your children
ad a picture of "Old Abe. the Wisconsin War-
agle," last month, it occurs to me that it would
1 well to show them the portrait of another regi-
ment pet. Here he is, a superb creature, and well
Worthy of the kindness and favor shown him. He
elongcd to the Forty-second Highlanders (a
ritish company), and he always marched in front
J their band. His quick, sensitive ears generally

THE PET OF THE REGIMENT ON THE MARCH,

rciuld twitch at the slightest sound, and yet he

ould bear unmoved the din of his dear regiment's

rums and trumpets. Indeed, so proud was he of

Lais band, that he would become very angry if,

I uring a parade, a stranger attempted to pass be-

t ween it and the main body of the regiment. He

j.ras a brave, daring fellow in some respects, and

et, strange to say, he at last was driven to his

£ath by fright. One day, an angry cat suddenly

reared her back at him, and. seized with a strange
terror, he jumped over a precipice and was killed.
Yours truly, SILAS GREEN.

SNAKES WITH SPECTACLES!

Perhaps all snalfes do not wear them, but that
some kinds do I can testify. You know that snakes
spend their lives crawling about among brush-wood
and thorns, and it is essential that their eyes should
be protected in some way. So kind nature has

given them strong
spectacles made of
horn, as clear and
transparent as the
besc of eye-glasses.
I have myself seen a
pair.

You must know
that at certain pe-
riods a snake casts
off the skin which
has served him for a
coat until he has out-
grown it, and makes
his appearance in a
brand-new suit. This
morning I had a
good chance to ex-
amine the cast-off
coat of a snake which
was left very near
me. and attached to
it I saw a pair of the
spectacles such as I
have described. So
I suppose his snake-
ship has a new pair
with every new coat.
Can you tell me
anything more about
these spectacles ?

TIP TOP SHOES.

Copper toes? Oh,
no ! These are new
affairs. The shoes I
allude to are very
old-fashioned — time
of Queen Bess (how
long ago w'as that ?).
They were a sort of
clog or slipper, worn
under the common
shoe to set ladies up in the world. The)' were
half a yard high sometimes, and were made of
wood, painted and gilded. In Venice, where every-
body wore them, the greatest lady wore the highest
chopine, as these tip-top shoes are called.

How awkward they must have looked, walking
about on such clumsy things. I am glad the Little
Schoolma'am does n't wear them, if only for the
daisies' sake.

OUR MUSIC PAGE.

[Novembe]

Words by " Alba.'"
$: Allegro Moderate.

DICKON HAS A BOAT,

Music by F. Boott.

,6-1

LITTLE HOUSEKEEPERS PAGE.

WINE OR CIDER JELLY.

By Marion Hari.and.

Half a package of Coxe's Sparkling Gelatine, one cup of loaf sugar, one cup of cold water, juice and
ated peel of one lemon, a pinch of nutmeg, and the same of ground cinnamon, two cups of boiling
iter, and one glass of clear wine or cider.

Soak the gelatine in the cold water for two hours. Put it into a bowl with the sugar, lemon-juice and

peel, nutmeg and cin-
namon. Pour the boil-
ing water over these,
and stir until the gela-
tine is dissolved. Add
the wine or cider, and
strain through a thick
flannel bag, without
shaking or squeezing
it, into a pitcher. It
requires patience to see the slow "drop !
drop ! " of the amber-colored liquid with-
out giving the bag just a tiny squeeze to
hurry it up (or down). But your jelly
will be cloudy if you wring out the dregs.
Rinse out a bowl or jelly-mold with cold
water, but do not wipe the inside. Pour
into this the jelly from the pitcher, and
set upon the ice or in a cold place until it
is firm. When you wish to turn it out,
dip the mold for one instant in hot water
— not boiling — and turn upside down into
a glass dish. Let mamma or auntie show

you how to do this, as it is rather a delicate bit of work.
JAM.

Four pounds of berries, or ripe peaches, pared and
sliced ; three pounds of loaf or granulated sugar.

Put the fruit into a porcelain kettle, or a very bright
bell-metal one. Copper kettles are poisonous, if not
clean. Set this kettle into a pot or pan of hot water
upon the range. Cover closely, and let the water in
the outer vessel boil until the fruit in the inner kettle
is hot and tender throughout. Lift the kettle from
the fire, and mash the heated fruit with a wooden
spoon. Put it back over the fire, this time directly
upon the range, and let it boil steadily for half an
hour, stirring almost constantly. Put your wooden
spoon down to the bottom at each stir, to keep the
fruit from burning. Drain off a quart of the juice at
the end of the half hour. Add the sugar to the fruit
and boil fast for half an hour more. Keep your spoon
busy all this time. Jam should not be allowed to stop
boiling for a moment after it begins to bubble up.

Rinse out some small tumblers or cups with hot
water. Pour the jam in hot, but let it cool before you
iver it. Cut tissue paper to fit the inside of each cup ; press it down smoothly upon the jam : pour a
a-spoonful of brandy upon this ; then paste thick white paper over the top of the cup.

56 FOR VERY LITTLE FOLKS. [Novembe] jfl

A TRUE STORY, IN WHICH MRS. HOUND TALKS

ABOUT HER PUPPIES.

How old did you say ? Three weeks. Yes, the lit-tle dar-lings an
three weeks old this ver-y day ; and, though I do say it, they are the
fin-est chil-dren of their age I ev-er saw. Why, do you know they re-fus<
to stand up like com-mon dogs ! Won-der-ful, is n't it ? The way ir
which their soft lit-tle legs bend and dou-ble up un-cler them is the mos
as-ton-ish-ing thing you ever saw ! And on the end of ev-er-y leg is —
oh ! such a per-fect lit-tle paw, as soft as vel-vet — -just look ! At first the)
would not o-pen their eyes. Dear lit-tle things ! Was not that won-der
ful ? Then in a few days they o-pened them. Was not that won-der-ful
They go to sleep and they wake up just like oth-er dogs. Does not tha
beat all ? And if you put your ear close to their soft fur, you can hea:
them breathe. Yes, breathe ! And they are MY PUP-PIES !

I am not proud, but I do say they are five love-ly pup-pies. I ai
ver-y care-ful of them, too ; but I will let all you good lit-tle girls and
boys look at them, if you will be ver-y gen-tle. Don't make a noise an<
wake up Snow-ball — he is the sleep-y one. Black-ball, here, is wid
a-wake. You may touch his nose soft-ly, if you wish. You will find i
quite nice and cool. I am so glad they are well and strong ! They tak
af-ter me. Now, my dear friends, if you will please go a-way, I shall b
o-hliged to you. My lit-tle ones need rest and qui-et at first, or the;
will be spoiled. Any-thing but nerv ous, fret-ful pup-pies for me !

Little Joe Clacket, he made such a racket
While shelling some corn at the barn,
The Hebiddy crew, the chickens they flew,
All coming to eat up Joe's corn.

While Joe was shelling his corn in the barn,
His mother was spinning some double-twist yarn.
She made such a buzzing and whizzety whuzzing,
She could not hear Joe at his corn in the barn ;
He made such a racket and clicketty clacket,
He did not hear her at her double-twist yarn.

FOR VERY LITTLE FOLKS

-~. V^_o ■ v -V

THE WONDERFL'L POPPIES.

FOR VERY LITTLE FOLKS.

[November,

CHILDREN OF THE WEEK.

The child that is born on the
Sabbath day

Is blithe and bonny, and good
and gay ;

Monday's child is fair of face ;

Tuesday's child is full of grace ;

Wednesday's child is merry and
glad;

Thursday's child is sour and sad ;

Friday's child is loving and giv-
ing ;

And Saturday's child must work

[See "Letter-Box. "]

*7°.]

YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS DEPAR T M KNT.

YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS' DEPARTMENT.

LETTKR FROM WINKIE WEST.

Moretand, Oct. 12, 1875-
i CHiPfV, old boy, it seems to me that I never had such fun in all my
Te as 1 had last summer. It was at a place called Woodbury. You

ont find it on any map, I guess; but that is the real name. When
:hool was out in June, we staid about home for a week or two, and
,ien a letter came from Uncle Jacob and Aunt Hannah, ashing us if

e didn't want to come and slay the rest of the summer on the farm,
/e got the letter about dinner-time ; but I wasn't hungry after that.
1 other would n't let me go and tell Walt about it until after dinner.
v'e didn't have anything extra; but it did take them the longest
me to get through.

' Well, you can bet that Walt was glad when I told him, and we
egan to get ready at once. Walt's old rifle had to be got down and
eaned ; then we had to lay in some powder and shot. I had to get
le a new pocket-knife, and then there was a lot of other things we
ot ready, which I have forgotten now.

It took us two days and one night to get there. We were both of
s pretty tired and both of us pretty dirty at the end of that second
ay. Tom was at the depot with th<_- horses when we reached Wood-
ury. and after a drive of a mile we stopped at the front door.

There, on the steps, stood Uncle Jacob, and Aunt Hannah, and
.unt Mary, and Cousin Libby, and Sarah, and Hannah; and Walt
nd I had to kiss all of 'em. Mother said we must when we came
,way from home I guess it wasn't very nice for them, with our
ices covered with dust and cinders.

I don't ihink this house is a hundred years old; but it ought to
e, it's such a good one. It is n't painted, and it was n't built all at
nee. When Uncle Jacob came here to live, they built the low part,
'here's where the dining-room is now. It's a splendid room, I can
;llyou. You 'd think so if you could have some of the good things
t eat we have in there three times a day. What would you say,
i!hippy, if you could pass your saucer the third time for apple-sauce,
!nd have it heapud the last time, without having them tell you not to
sk for any more ?

I There are two lounges, one in the dining-room and one in the hall
-and it's a splendid long wide hall, with a door at each end. Did
iou ever see a door that opened half at a time — the upper half, and
nen the lower? That's the way they are here Well, after break-
tst, and dinner, and supper, Walt and 1 lie down on the lounge. I
poke first for the one in the hall ; so that is mine. The pillow is a
reat deal softer. I don't know why we lie down always then.
*om says it 's because wc have been working hard ; but that 's some
f his fun, because we don't work at all. All we do is to have fun.

There's a boy here that we call Smutty Walt named him. He '11

anything you tell him if it is fur fun. He would go in swimming
hundred times a day, if Walt and 1 would go in with him, but he

on't like to bring in wood.

Nobody has to churn out here, It *s the dog. There's a big wheel
itched to another wheel, and then there's a crank; so when the dog
'alks, the dasher goes just as it docs when anybody churns up and
own. I can see him churn every day. I 'm glad I aim Uncle
acob's dog.

There is a big brook runs down through the valley, and Tom and
Jncle Jacob have fixed a place so all the water runs through a box
'ith holes in it. That's for catching eels. Y'ou ought to have seen
diata whopper we caught the other morning ! I had two big pieces
t breakfast ; and it was good, I can tell you. 1 like eels.

1 Walt and I made a water-wheel, and you should see how it goes !
'he water comes rushing down through the holes into a trough we
lade for it, and when it leaves the trough it gives one good jump for
ur wheel. Doesn't it whirl though ! After we finished that, we got
1 little trip-hammer to work ; and, quite a little ways off, you can hear
: go — rap-rap-rap !

The day we finished the trip-hammer, we had a good time. It was
bout ten o'clock, and we got hungry. Walt said he was hungry
irst, and that made me feel so, and 1 said I was. Then Walt said :
'Let's tell Smutty to tell Aunt Hannah we want something to eat."
■Then I said, "Let's." So Walt hollered to Smutty, and Smutty said
le'd go if we'd give him some, and we said we would. Well, what
lo you think? Aunt Hannah sent us two slices of bread apiece,
'Uttered thick with butter, and lots and lots of apple-sauce on it. 1
alt sorry that wc promised to give a part to Smutty when I saw how
;ood it was. We get hungry now every day at ten o'clock, and we
(on't always have bread and butter either. Oh, you 'd like to be here
-such times !

I 've kept the best till the last. We go bare-footed when we want
o, and we don't have to wear any collar or neck-tie.

I can't write any more now, because it is dinner-time, and Walt
ind I don't like to trouble Aunt Hannah by being late.
Your affectionate school-mate,

Winkie West.

P. S. — We have clam fritters for dinner, and Walt likes them like
■very thing. So do 1.

NOTHING TO DO

A robin swayed to and fro
On the old green apple-tree;

He caroled a lovely song,

And this song he caroled to me:

' Oh, maiden fair,

I 'm glad I aint you ;
I am glad, I am glad,
For you 've nothing to do.

• The leaves they do grow,
And the grass grows too,
And the apple-tree blooms,
But you 've nothing to do.

' The goslings all swim
In the lake so blue.
And the hen lays eggs,
But you 've nothing to do.

' The little birds chirp,

And the dove says 'coo;'
The chanticleer crows.

But you 've nothing to do.

' The smoke curls up

From the chimney's flue,
And floats to the sky,
But you 've nothing to do.

' To the green of the grass
The flow'r lends its hue,
And blooms in the sun,
But you 've nothing to do.

' The clouds roll on
In the distant view,
And form the cool rain,
But you 've nothing to do,

' But now to my nest

I my way must pursue,
And leave you alone
With nothing to do."

Then he spread his wings,

And away he flew,
Singing and caroling,
" Nothing to do ! "

I rose from the grass,

And the long hours did rue

Which I 'd spent lying there
With nothing to do.

On my chair were the socks.

Full of holes it is true ;
But I said to myself,
" Here is something to do ! "

MY SQUIRREL.

Most children like pets I do. I know. I have had kittens, and
birds, and puppies, but I have liked none so well as my beautiful
little gray squirrel. I reared him from a baby on milk from a bot-
tle Our house is in the country, with woods all around, and our
bed-room is very large, and on the first floor. My dear father is
very infirm, and rarely ever leaves the house, and the window-sashes
are always kept down. In this room Bunny has passed his first
vear of life: he has his cage and bed, but he has never been con-
fined, and his whole time, when not asleep, is spent in mischief and
romping. In the morning he is up first, and wakes me by rubbing
his nose in my face and purring like a cat, evidently saying, "Get
up, lazy bones ! '' He then examines every chair, table, wardrobe
and box ; whatever he takes a fancy to he carries to certain hiding-
places for future use; my mother's work-basket is alwavs inspected,
and her thimbles and spools of thread are carefully hidden away.
We know his places of deposit, and whenever anything is missing
we say at once, " Bunny has hidden it." When he is ready for a
romp he jumps on my shoulder or head, and nips my ear gently
with his teeth; then he scampers off, and we play hide-and-seek for

THE RIDDLE -BOX.

[November,

an hour; and the cunning and sense he shows in this play father
says is greater than that of most children. He is the most playful
and active animal I ever saw, — far ahead of a kitten. If father is
asleep on his lounge, Bunny teases him until he sometimes gets a
flogging; he pulls father's hair, biles his ears, pulls the newspaper
from his face, nips his fingers, and I and mother look on and laugh.
In warm weather he slips between the sheets of my bed and coils
up exactly in the middle of the bed. He knows a stranger as soon
as he conies in, and will snarl and quarrel and scold like an old
woman if strange children come in. If I leave the room he rims to
the windows to watch me through the glass. He will put up with
the roughest treatment from me without minding it, but a stranger
must take care of those needle-like teeth; he can jump ten feet from
one table to another. He is fed on nuts, bread, fruit, or almost any-
thing that we eat; is constantly hiding away things to eat. When
any of us have to write, we are obliged to shut him up; he snatches
the pen from the hand, scratches at the paper, upsets the ink, and for
mischief he never had his equal. I could write all day, and- then
not tell all about him. To see him take a nut, run and jump on top
of mother's head, sit there and eat it, and then hide the shell in the
folds of her hair, is real funny; he has found out that the door is
opened by turning the knob, and he often tries to turn it himself; he

keeps me laughing half my time; but when he takes my poor dollies
by the head and drags them over the floor, then he makes me mad.
I am keeping him to take to New York next summer to a little boy.
cousin of mine. a. C. w.

THE YOUTH AND THE NORTH WIND.

Once on a time— 't was long ago —

There lived a worthy dame,
Who sent her son to fetch some flour,

For she was old and lame.

But while he loitered on the road,
The north wind chanced to stray

Across the careless youngster's path,
And stole the flour away.

"Alas! what shall we do for bread?"

Exclaimed the weeping lad ;
" The flour is gone! the flour is gone!

And it was all we had ! " MINNIE nichols.

THE LETTER-BOX.

We give this month, on pp. 50-51, directions for making a " Cen-
tennial " fancy article fur a Christmas gift. Our readers will find a
few other timely hints in the present " Letter-Box ;" and, for further
information on the subject of home-made holiday gifts, we refer them
to " One Hundred Christmas Presents, and How to Make Them," in
St. Nicholas for December, 1875.

Brooklyn, N. Y.
Dear St. Nicholas: Can any of your readers tell me why two
small c's are placed at the foot of the eagle on half and quarter dol-
lars? Sometimes there is an s instead of the c's, and on coins of
dates previous to 1875 I have never noticed anything. On some
dimes I have seen two c's, but I don't remember ever having noticed
an s on a dime. If some one will tell me what this means. I shall be
much obliged. — Yours truly, Jessie J. Cassidy.

The two small letters c c, and the single letter s, sometimes seen on
our silver money, mean Carson City and San Francisco, and are put on
the coins to show that they were struck at the mints in those cities.
Coins from the mother mint at Philadelphia have nothing, and the
absence of the letters shows they were made there. By means of
these marks the examiners at the Assay Office are enabled to trace
the coins if they find any defects in the work.

Adele sends this pretty song which she has translated for St.
Nicholas from the German of Goethe:

THE BEE AND THE BLUEBELL.

A dear little bluebell,

On one gladsome day,
Sprang forth from the dark earth

In brightest array.
There soon came and sipped,

A little brown bee;
They were for each other

Created, you see.

The picture of the "Children of the Week," in our department
"For Very Little Folks," was printed some years ago in Hearth
and Home, but we reproduce it, not only because it is such a good
picture, but because it is the very first drawing on wood ever made
by our charming artist, Addie Ledyard. The poem in this number,
" The Sunday Baby," will give additional interest to the illustration.

Grand View, Texas.
Dear St. Nicholas : Brother Harry and I have been taking^ the
St. Nicholas two years. We are all happy when it comes ; it is so
interesting, I want to write you a letter to thank you for making us

such a nice, sweet book every month. I am ten years old, and
brother Harry is twelve. We are both studying United States his-
tory. We would so much enjoy a visit to the great Centennial at
Philadelphia, but we live many hundreds of miles away in North-
western Texas, and never saw a city, nor a railroad, nor many of the
wonderful things we read of in St. Nicholas. Katv Grant.

Litchfield, Illinois.
Editor St. Nicholas : As I am about to begin the study of Eng-
lish literature, I have written an answer to the first of the Harvard
University questions published in the September Sckibner. getting
my information from "Chambers' Cyclopaedia of English Literature"
{1847) and the "American Cyclopaedia." I would like you to say
how it would be received as an answer to the question if it was given
in an examination. I did not feel sure whether I should go further
back than Layamon, or whether to include the Scotch writers or not
— Respectfully, Mary L. Hood (aged 14 years).

Question : What aie the principal writings in the English language
before Chaucer?

Answer : The beginning of English literature is generally accredited
to the latter part of the twelfth century, when the Anglo-Saxon tongue
began to be modified by the Norman -French. The oldest known
book considered English is Layamon's translation of Wace's " Roman
de Brut." This writer is considered the first of a series known as
the "Rhyming Chroniclers." Among them, Robert of Gloucester
wrote a rhyming history of England, and Robert Manning translated
several French books. Besides these were metrical romances, gener-
ally reproduced from the Anglo-Norman, among which were " Sir
Tristram," "Sir Guy," "The Squire of Low Degree," "' The King of
Tars," " Morte Arthure," etc. Among the immediate predecessors
of Chaucer were Laurence Minot. a ballad writer, and Robert Lang-
lande, the author of " Piers Plowman." Contemporary with Chaucer
were Sir John Mandeville, who wrote an account of his travels ; John
Wicklifle, the reformer, who translated the Bible and wrote several
controversial works in English ; and John Gower, the author of
" Confessio Amantis."

We consider your answer a very good one.

"An Old Grandmother." — Thanks for the leaves of the "life-
plant." They are flourishing finely, and we have sent some of them
to the Little Schoolma'am.

Zanesville, Ohio.
Dear St. Nicholas : I received you yesterday. My grandpa
gave me you for a Christmas gift. Don't you think I have a good
grandpa? I see many letters in the "Letter-Box," but none from
Zanesville. Zanesville is a smoky old town, but I like it because it is
my home. We have two rivers here, the Muskingum and the Lick-
ing. I am eight years old, and never went to school until last spring.
1 have two pets, a dog and a squirrel. I have so much fun playing
with my squirrel. He is very tame, and eats out of my hand. — Your
little reader, Effie W. Mlnson.

'176-1

THE LETTER-BOX.

| Dear St. Nicholas : Please let me give your young readers a

|nt for fancy-work for the coming holidays.

i Shagreen paper, or egg-shell board, is anew, useful, and pretty ma-
rial for handkerchief-cases, card-baskets, wall-pockets, etc. It may
: bought for twenty-five cents a sheet at framing establishments,
here it is used in making passe-partouts. It is white on one side,
id gray on the other. The gray side will be found more effective
r fancy-work. The edges of this paper may readily be pinked.

'he parts of any fancy article can be fastened together by running

'3bon through holes punched in the center of each pinked scollop.

Iretty colored pictures, wreaths, leaf-sprays, etc., such as are sold in
e fancy stores for children's albums, may be pasted on the surface,
desired. Alice Donlevy.

Beverly, New Jersey.

Dear St. Nicholas : A young friend, now at Princeton College,
nt as a New- Year's gift your magazine to my little girls in 1875,
id has continued it for this year. The pleasure he has given them

the enjoyment of its pages has led me to suggest, through your
Setter-Box," to other young men desiring to present a birthday or
>liday present to a little friend, sister, brother, or cousin, that they
■ ould follow his example and send them a year's subscription to
e St. Nicholas. It would be, as my little girls say, "a new pres-
it every month." Its pure pages can safely be put in the hands of
ir children, and relieve a parent's anxiety as to what they will read

them, while we have so much to dread from many other periodicals,
'>oks, etc.

We have made use of several of your charades, pantomimes, &c,
ith success, in our little school entertainments, and thank you for
em. — Respectfully. Mrs, Fannie M.

Dear St. Nicholas: I have tried making candy according to
ihn F. H.'s plan. The candy turned out to be real good. Please
it me down as a Bird-defender. — Yours truly,

\\\ West Randall.

Brooklyn, N. Y.
Dear St. Nicholas : I read you and like you very much, and
eing that the other boys and girls write to you, I thought that 1
'ould too. Winter before last, I went to Florida fnr my health, and
hile I was there the hotel folks used to go alligator-shooting, and

;.ey brought in several pretty good-sized ones. They are nice-look-

rg fellows, so I thought, but ugly to tackle.
Aside from this, I had a pretty good time there, and when I was

'urning home I brought a little 'gator with me; but when I got to
ivannah, on my way home, he got lost in a fountain that was in

|6nt of the hotel ; and a few days after, he got out and crawled into

; e cellar of the hotel, where the cat got him and killed him.

; But after that I got another one, which I liked better, and he did
it get. lost or die, but has since then traveled with me wherever I
ent; and last winter I got a turtle to keep him company, and they

In along nicely together. Besides them, I have a gray squirrel that

i like very much, and now I am trying to get a young 'coon.

- Hoping that you will not get tired of my long letter, I remain,

ours truly, Clarence H. New.

Yorkville, Sept., '76.
' Dear St. Nicholas : Will you please tell the girls that they can
;ake a real pretty Christmas present for their fathers, brothers or
icles, out of a child's slipper. You take a pretty little blue or red
d slipper, or bronze if you like it better, and glue a little round glass
kstand fast to the inside of the heel, so that as it stands in there it
aches the least bit beyond the top. Then in the toe you fasten in a
ill of fine black merino or cloth, gathered just as full as can be.
his fills the toe out nicely, while the pinked edges of the frill stick
it loosely about three quarters of an inch toward the inkstand, and
irm a pen-wiper and ornament at the same time. I ought to have
>ld you to put this in before the inkstand. If another .girl will go
■lives with you in buying a pair of slippers, it is better, as you may
atwant to make two presents so much alike.

I My brother saws cocoa-nut shells in two, then cleans and smooths
iem inside and out, and sets them on rustic stands or legs, which he
akes out of twigs and roots. He varnishes the whole, after putting
rim of acorns and leather oak-leaves around the top of the cocoa-
Jtpart; and you don't know what a prettv flower-stand it makes,
ometimes he trims the rim with a rustic twist, and finishes with rustic
andles. He lines them with red or blue velvet, if they are to be
sed for knick knacks or cards in them. Some boys like to make
tese for Christmas presents. — Yours truly, Rosetta F.

Dear St. Nicholas : I went on the coast survey with Uncle
■din. I was thirteen years old then. We were delayed at Panama,
id Uncle Odin gave me a long, bright day for hunting specimens
•r my cabinet. He had been there before, and so he knew what to
gjlG for. We went to an old mine that has not been worked for more
lan a hundred years, and found some curious specimens. Up among
ie hills we found garnets and a shiny black crystal that I persisted
1 believing was a black diamond ; but down in the warm, wet valley

between the mountains, the loveliest flowers were growing, and
among them one which I want to tell you about.

Uncle Odin said it was an orchid, but the pretty Spanish name for
it is "Lafior del Espiritit Santa,'" which, being literally interpreted,
means "Flower of the Holy Spirit," though it is sometimes called
the " Holy Ghost flower." It grows very much like a tuberose, with
fibrous, bulbous root, from which rises a tall stem or stalk. The
leaves are long and pointed, wrapping sheath-like about the stalk,
and then bending away from it to show the beautiful flowers. They
are just as pure white as a water-lily, cup shaped, and about as large
as a tulip. Each flower grows on a short stem that droops a little
from the main stalk, so one can look straight into the open cup, and
there lies a pure white dove, with slightly raised wings, tinted a faint
lavender or dove color, and a delicate pink beak on its pretty round
head. It is about an inch long, I guess, and as exquisitely formed as
though carved from the finest alabaster.

I wanted to bring a root home with me, but Uncle Odin said it
would not live if disturbed in the flowering season; that late in the
autumn, or early in the spring, the bulbs might be taken up and dried
like tulip-bulbs, and then they would bloom again. So I told the
pretty thing farewell, and left it there in the wilderness of swamp.

Well, as I said, Uncle Odin called it an orchid when I asked him
what kind of a flower it was, just as though that explained the whole
matter. Now, what I want to ask of Jack-in-the-Pulpit, or some of
your wise people, is — What is an orchid V Do they all bloom white,
and have they all doves in their dainty cups? Please tell me some-
thing about them, and much oblige your friend,

Nat. Emerson.

The orchids are a large family of flowers, found throughout the
year in almost all parts of the world. They are noted for the peculiar
torm which one part of the flower assumes, making it resemble some
insect, reptile, or bird, as in the case given in the above letter. The
orchids are very singular, beautiful, and fragrant flowers. A common
specimen is the " lady's-slipper."

Down in the valley, so cool and green,

The lily's head is to be seen.

Beautiful lily, so fair and sweet,

White and pure, you lie at the traveler's feet.

Darlingest lily, I love you so,

I dare not to part with you, dare not to go.

Beautiful lily, so pure and white.

Lies in the valley, lies there all night.

"Little May" (five years old).

Two lovers, with very bad colds in their heads, hid away when
they heard somebody coming. When that somebody halted close by
the spot, the lady called out archly the name of a famous mythological
rod. What was it ?

Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little girl, six years old, and my name
is Minnie Blaisdell. I am an only child, and "have not even a cousin
or uncle or aunt, for both papa and mamma never had a brother or
sister, and papa's father and mother died when he was a baby, and
Ins aunt took care of him. I wonder if there is any other reader of
St. Nicholas who has no cousin.

I am not very strong, and mamma says my health is delicate, so I
have to stay in the house a good deal, and can't play as much as
most children can ; and as I have no one at home to play with, I get
lonesome. I am very fond of kittens, and want one yen,- much, but
mamma wont let me have any, for she thinks it is not good for me.
Do you think it would hurt me ?

As I can't have a kitten, papa got me two dogs. One is a great
black Newfoundland, and his name is Hero ; and the other is just the
littlest bit of a black doggie I ever saw. He is so small, when I go out-
doors I put him in a pocket on the outside of my sacque, and you can
just see his little head peeping out. He has very bright eyes, and
looks very funny, for he almost always has his little red tongue stick-
ing out I call him Tom Thumb, because he is so small, and he is
full of mischief. He likes to tease Hero, who does not think such a
little fellow is worth minding. At meals the dogs come and sit one
on each side of me, but mamma wont let me give them anything at
the table. Hero never asks for it, and if Tom does, Hero takes him
by the collar and walks him out of the room, and wont let him come
back. But when I feed them, Hero gives Tom the best ; and when
any one gives him anything, he gives Tom the biggest share. He
always lets Tom have the softest and warmest seat. Is n't he kind ?
Mamma says he teaches us a good lesson, and I try to be as kind
and generous as Hero, for I surely ought to do better than a dog.
Hero is very grave and dignified, and never cuts up capers- as Tom
does. If Tom doesn't mind me, Hero gives him a good shaking or
boxes his ears. Sometimes Tom hides things, and then Hero makes
him bring them back. So when Tom is naughty, I tell Hero to
punish him, and he does. But he is very kind to Tom, and lets him
pull and bite his tail and ears, or do anything he pleases to him.
When they go out with me, and Tom gets tired walking, he makes

THE RIDDLE-BOX.

[Novembe^

Hero carry him on his back Hero saved my life once, so we think
he deserves his name, don't you?

Besides my dogs, papa got me the prettiest little black pony, for
Dr. Lyon said I ought to ride horseback. He is very small; jet
black, with a while star on his forehead and white feet, and a long
flowing mane and tail; and 1 named him Charlie. I have a little-
carriage that holds two, and every pleasant day I ride out in it or on
horseback, with Hero to take care of me. Sometimes I take Tom in
my pocket. Papa is n't afraid to lei me go anywhere if Hero is with
me, for he wont let anything hurt me.

Grandpa and grandma live with us, and grandma helped me write ■
this. If you can, will you please print this, so that the others can
hear about my pets. I must tell you papa says Tom will never grow
any larger. He got St. Nicholas for me, and I like it ever so
much. — With ever so much love to you and all your readers,

Minnie Blaisdell.

Brockport, N. Y.

Dear St. Nicholas: 1 send you an answer to the question of
H. E. B. : "When did Great Britain acknowledge the independence
of the United States, or American Colonies, as it was then called ? "

A final treaty of peace between Great Britain and the United States
was signed at Paris, on the third of September, by David Hartley,
Esq., on the part of the King of England, and by John Adams,
Benjamin Franklin, and John Jay, on the part of the United States.

The independence of the colonies was acknowledged by Sweden on
the 5th of February, by Denmark on the 25th of February, by Spain
on the 24th of March, and by Russia in July, all in the year 17S3,
before it was formally acknowledged by England.

The question of Ruel L. S. about birthdays on the 29th of February'
I have often thought of myself, but never have been able to find an
answer to it. I should think though, that as all other birthdays are
365 days after the last one, this one would be on the 1st of March in
all years but leap-year.

1 have taken you (doesn't it seem funny to say "you"?) for almost
a year, and I mean to go right on taking you, you are so splendid.
I have a little sister, six years oM, who was so delighted with " Bobby
and the Keyhole," that she has made me read it over and over until
I know it almost by heart. I think "The Boy Emigrants" is very
interesting, and "Talks with Girls" just as nice as can be; only I
wish you came oftener and staid longer.— Your "loving reader.

Elizabeth B. Allen.

Several others of the boys and girls have answered H. E. B.'s
question correctly.

Rocky Brook, Rhode Island.
Dear St. Nicholas: Can you not hit a ball twice in croquet,
even if you have not been through your wicket, provided it is a
different turn? Rolong Redmaine.

In every turn, at croquet, you begin afresh, as far as the balls are
concerned, and may hit a ball the second time even if you have not
gone through a wicket since you hit it the first time.

South Pueblo, Colorado, le 26 Juillet,
Cher St. Nicholas : Nous sommes deux petites filles, agees a

peu pres six et sept ans ; qui demeurent en Colorado. Nous sommes

toujours si heureuses quand St. Nicholas arrive.

Maman nous a lu 1'histoire de Piccola qui etait tres triste, parce

qu'elle n'avait point de cadeau de Noel.

Nous avons gardes nos habits et nos bottines pour elle. Dites, s'il

vous plait a M Aldrich de nous donner un autre conte aussi amusart
que celui de la comtesse de la Grenouillere. Si nous allions ci
France, un de ces jours, nous esperons voir Piccola.

Vos petites amies, Gertrude et Anne Lemborn,

Newsboys' Home, New York
Dear St. Nicholas : About six weeks ago I was up to Cooper'i
Institute, and happening tr> pick up the St. Nicholas for April,
came across an article headed " The Poor Boys' Astor House," ar.
as I am an inmate of that institution, I eagerly examined its content
which I think was very nice; in fact, I was enraptured with all
read, especially about Gilbert Stuart.

I am a poor boy without home or friends, and had it not been fq
the Home, I do not know what I would do My father died abou
one year ago, and my mother is in the Insane Asylum, and I have
live at the Home.

I have written several pieces of poetry, and as there is a deparl
ment for amateur contributors, I take the liberty of sending you th
following piece, which I leave to your approval ; and if it is fit fq
publication, it would please me very much to see it in print.

James D. Borden

LIFE.

Life ! 't is but a little garden-flower,

Growing on a rough and rugged road.
Ready to drop off at any hour,
As if weary of its load.

First in infancy it dangles,

In the gentle summer winds;
Then in youth gets entangled,

And no rest it ever finds.

Now in manhood's happy bower,
In peace and comfort it still grows ;

And at old age it lost its power,
Drove by chilly wind that blows.

See now, with death in every zephyr.
Time, its dreadful scythe in hand,

Sweeps from this wicked world forever,
To a far but better land.

Norristown, Pa., June 28, 1876.
Dear St. Nicholas : I like your magazine very much. I ihin

it is the best magazine that has ever been published. I have jui
commenced "The Story of Sevenoaks," bound in a book. I am vei
much interested in the story of "The Boy Emigrants." My frieni
J. Craig Crawford, showed me my name in the list of Bird-defende:
in the July number. I was very glad that my letter had been r
ceived. I thought the " Eight Cousins " and " The Young Survey oi
were elegant. Every piece in St. Nicholas interests me. A frien
of mine has had the St. Nicholas for 1875 beautifully bound for pi
with my name at the bottom.

I was sitting in father's study, and I thought I might as well wn
to you. I am ten years old to-day. I was born at exactly half-pa
one in the morning on the 28th of June, 1866. We have only s
days to wait before our country will be one. hundred years old ; bi
there is no need of me telling it, for everybody knows it. Please pi
this in the " Letter-Box." I shall watch to see it in print. I will no
close. — Yours truly, Hyland C. Mirphy.

THE RIDDLE -BOX.

DOUBLE ACROSTIC.

1. A vellow flower. 2. An ingredient of soap. 3. An aromatic
plant. 4. A large animal. 5. A young woman. 6. A custom. 7. A
black bird. 8. A silver coin. 9. A measure of length. 10. A useful
metal.

The initials and finals form two of Dickens's characters.

ANAGRAMS.

American cities: 1. A philanthropic city — Sob not. 2. An enter-
prising city — On, we kry. 3. A river-spanning city — Crost here. 4.
A noted city — In shag town. 5. A seaport city — Let's anchor. 6.
A hot city — Boil me. 7. A new city — Up last. oswv.

EASY SYNCOPATIONS.

1. Syncopate a word meaning to unite, and leave a girl's nam
2. Syncopate a word meaning fortunate, and leave a girl's name.
Syncopate the name of an opera, and leave a girl's name. c. D.

REVERSALS.

1. I do not of wearing the prison . 2. There is plenty

on the . 3. What a of words about a 4. W

that the in ancient . 5. I sent a which he will recer

at . 6. We must get a new for this block at one of ti

Southern . 7. Could you describe the correctly as bei

covered by . ruth

6.]

THE RIDDLE-BOX.

ABBREVIATIONS.

'. Behead and syncopate an article of food, and leave a color. 2.
icad and syncopate an evergreen tree, and leave a part of the
|y. 3. Hehead and syncopaLe a mournful song, and leave anger
iehead and syncopate a noted epic poem, and leave a boy. 5. Be-
,d and syncopate a precious stone, and leave a fish. 6. Behead
i syncopate a forest tree, and leave a malt liquor. 7. Behead and
copate a relative, and leave a luxury in summer. 8. Behead and
copate a tropical fruit, and leave a falsehood, 9. Behead and syn-
fflKe a part of the body, and leave an article of food. 10. Behead
,1 syncopate a kind of grain, and leave an article of clothing.

ISOLA.

CROSS-WORD ENIGMA.

{A large and renowned city.)

My first is in plum, but not in peach ;

My second is in oak, but not in beech ;

My third is in stone, but not in rock;

My fourth is in door, but not in lock ;

My fifth is in old, but not in new ;

My sixth is in rain, but not in dew; c. u. u.

DIAGONAL PUZZLE.

. A noted ancient city. 2. A means of rising in the world. 3. A
:y plant. 4. One of a certain Kastern tribe. 5. A church benefice.
V small leaf. 7. A musical instrument,
diagonals — From left to right: A degree of honor. From right to

: A badge of the honor. j. p. b.

CHARADE, No. J .

My first has a large throat, and sometimes swallows,

Though never in the winter, I believe;
And sometimes it gets choked, and then it follows

That only active remedies relieve.

My next you have when anything is broken, *

Nor is it often then a welcome sight ;
Though sometimes you esteem it as a token,

And give or take it with a small delight.

My whole, when glowing from a light beneath it,

Seems radiant with a warmth it cannot give,
And helps to emphasize a pleasant welcome

In homes where open-hearted people live. j. p. B.

PICTORIAL DOUBLE ACROSTIC,

*A A metal.

SQUARE-WORD.

2. A city in Eunipe. 3. To leave out. 4. Used in

J. W. H.

GRAMMATICAL COMPARISONS.

r . Positive, an insect; comparative, a beverage; superlative, an
mal. -2. Positive, an instrument used in a certain out-door exer-
1 :; comparative, a dull companion ; superlative, an expression of
:( iiity. 3. Positive, payment for services ; comparative, npprehen-
.1 of evil or danger; superlative, a festive meal. 4. Positive, a
: id animal ; comparative, a loud sound ; superlative, cooked meat.

T ISOLA.

RIDDLE.

*T was yesterday that you made game

Of me, you stupid bat !
To-day somebody trod on me,

And kicked me, and all that.
Well, well, my troubles last not long!
In spite of every kind of wrong,
I 'm bound to have my cheerful song. l. w. h.

APOCOPES.

. Apocopate a knot of ribbon, and leave a fowl. 2. Apocopate to
plex, and leave meat. 3. Apocopate a toy, and leave an animal.
Apocopate a candle, and leave a plant. 5. Apocopate sorrowful,
rl leave a plant. cvril deane.

REBUS.

(Of <he seven objects shown, arrange the names
initials and finals shall form the names of th

of five
othei

that the

EASY ENIGMA.

,' 3 saw a 4, 5, 6 in the 7, 8, 9 yard in

T , 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9,

CVRIL DEANE.

A CONSONANT.

5. A vowel.

CHARADE, No. 2.

FIRST.

I pry out a secret,

Devour a book ;

I guide the hunter,

And aid the couk.

I "m drilled at the needle,

And " cute " at a hook.

In short, I "m a wonderful creation,

Worthy your study and admiration,

Albeit I 'm naught but a perforation.

SECOND.

Faster and faster,
The cruel master

Waves me in air.
Agonized crying
Follows me, dying

In sobs and prayer.
Crying he heeds not,
His hard heart bleeds not

For such despair.

Lifting so lightly,
Drooping so slightly,

On tender hinge.
Dusting and sweeping
When I 'm not sleeping.

Deepening blue tinge,
Height'ning the sparkling,
Soft'ning the darkling,

Yet I 'm but fringe !

DIAMOND PUZZLE.

2. A negative. 3. A noted lover.

4. A num-

NEMO.

NUMERICAL ENIGMA.

Composed of seventeen letters. The 2, 13, 4, S, 1 is a part of the
body. The 4, 12, 16. 3, 17 is a sign of the zodiac. The 10, 7, 2, 13,
9 is a kind of tea. The 15, n, 1, 5, 17 is an aquatic flowering plant.
The 15, q, s, 6, 14 is a girl's name. The whole is a natural phenom-
enon. ISOLA.

THE RIDDLE-BOX.

[November

PICTORIAL ENIGMA.

(The upper picture represents the whole word, from the letters of which the words represented by the other pictures are to.be formed.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN OCTOBER NUMBER.

Model, ode. 2. Samples, ample.

5. Earth, art. 6. Eager, age.
A "Hidden Tour,— t. Bremen. 2. Hanover. 3. Tivoli. 4. Ham.
Lyons. 6. Rhine. 7. Cologne. 8. Bonn. 9. Coblentz. 10. Frank-

Incomplete Sentences — 1
3. Apathy, path. 4. Slater, late.

Baden.
Venice, ic
23. Berlin.

R O W
EWE

14. Stutgard. 15.
Prague. 20. Dres-

fort. 11. Mannheim. 12. Bingen.
Munich. 16. Tyrol. 17. Verona. 18
den. 21. Eisleben. 22. Wittenburg.
Connected Diamonds. —
s
ace

SCARE-*

E K A
E

Easy Diamond Puzzle — S, Ice, Screw, Eel, W.

Riddle. — Looking-glass — Lo, o, O, loo, look, kin, king, in, gee,
lass, as, ass.

Consonant Puzzle.— Tennessee, Nevada, Alabama, Kansas,
Arkansas, Alaska, Massachusetts, North Carolina, Mississippi, Vir-
ginia.

Easy Metagram. — Kate, date, fate, gate, hate, late.

Abbreviations. — 1. Elegy, leg. 2. Grape, rap. 3. Jewel, ewe.
4. Larch, arc. 5. Pasha, ash. 6. Snipe, nip. 7. Steam, tea. 8.
Black, lac. 0. Coney, one. 10. Crate, rat.

Beheaded' Rhymes. — Caprice, a price, price, rice, ice.

Double Acrostic — Saratoga, Monmouth.
S —ache- M
A —re— O

R _<>bi— N

A _r_ M
T — omat —
O —rmol— U

G — oa— T
A -s— H

Easy Enigmas.— i. Bobolink. 2. Grasshopper.
Square-Word. — opal

pine
anna
lead
Puzzle. — Notable, no table, not able.
Cross-Word Enigma.' — Charlie.
Syncopations. — 1. Aloe, ale. 2. Aunt, ant. 3.
Coat, cat. 5. Colt, cot. 6. Lead, lad 7. Plea, pea.
9. Rose, roe. 10. Tome, toe.
Charade — Kettle-drum.

Geometrical Transpositions. — Grandiloquent,
Circensial, Angelina, Quarantines, Connive, the Rubicon, Parsimc-r
Anomorhomboid, Consideringly.

Carp, cap,
8. Reed, re

Entcrtainir

Answers to Puzzles in Septfmber Number were received, previous to September 18, from Willie Dibblee. Nettie A. Ives, Jan
A. Montgomery, Amy R. Carpenter. Virginia Davage, Lucy Allen Paton, "Juliet," Jennie Fine, A. J. Lewis. Frieda E. Lippert, Emi
Elliott, Ida M. "Bourne, Agnes M. Hodges, Lucy Davis. Johnny Kenny, "Alex ' Nellie J. Thompson, C. M. Trmvbndgc, Nessie E. Steve
B P Emerv Howard S Rodgers, Carroll L. Maxey, Bessie McLaren, Helen Green, Clara L. Calhoun, W. C. Delanoy, R. L. Groendyci

Drawn by Thomas Muran.

;J by F. S. King.

THE HEART OF WINTER.

ST. NICHOLAS.

/OL. IV.

DECEMBER, 1876.

No. 2.

POEMS AND CAROLS OF WINTER.

By Lucy Larcom.

" It was the winter wild,
While the heaven-born Child,
All meanly wrapped, in the rude manger lies."

SWEETER carols than bird ever sang usher in
le wintry weather. The poem of childhood was
hanted by angels on the hills of Palestine eighteen
undred years ago, and its meaning has been deep-
ning in the hearts of Christian men and women
\rer since.

Dear children, the secret of true poetry, as well
B of all other true things, lies hidden in the heart
f the Babe of Bethlehem — the secret of heavenly
>ve, without which there is no beauty in the works
r words of men. "Peace on earth, good-will to
tan ! " is the hymn which must be sung in the
eart before any poem worth keeping can be writ-
:n.

Is it not beautiful that when the flowers of the
ood and field have done blossoming, when the
ees are leafless, and no birds make melody among
te barren boughs, the whole world breaks out into
nging over the cradle of its dearest Child ?
■ Some of the Christmas carols are as simple as
ursery-songs, and rude as the ages in which they
egan to be sung, when Christianity itself was in
s childhood. The wassail-cups and yule-fires of
te old Saxons were often strangely mixed up with
le tender and sacred birthday-story of the New
'estament. Sometimes these carols were sung by
lildren at the mansion window or door :

1 Here we come a-wassailing
Among the leaves so green ;
Here we come a-wandering.
So fair to be seen.

Love and joy come to you,
And to your wassail too,
And God bless you, and send you
A Happy New Year !

" We are not daily beggars,

That beg from door to door :
But we are neighbors' children,

Whom you have seen before.
God bless the master of this house,
God bless the mistress too.
And all the little children
That round the table go."

And some of them show a curious blending of
church-music and hunting-songs :

" The holly and the ivy.

Now both are full well grown ;
Of all the trees that are in the wood.

The holly bears the crown.
O the rising of the sun,

The running of the deer !
The playing of the merry organ ;

Sweet singing in the choir ! "

There are others which, through their very sim-
plicity, carry us back to the hills where the watch-
ing shepherds listened to the song of the angels, so
many centuries ago, so that we hear with them the
first notes of that celestial anthem whose echo will
never die away from the earth.

Listen to this :

" All in the time of winter,

When the fields were white with snow,
A babe was born in Bethlehem.

A long, long time ago.
Oh, what a thing was that, good folks.

That the Lord whom we do know,
Should have been a babe for all our sakes.

To take away our woe !

Vol. IV.— 5.

[Copyright, 1876, by Scribner & Co,]

POEMS AND CAROLS OF WINTER.

[December,

" Not in a golden castle

Was this sweet baby born,
But only in a stable,

With cattle and with corn;
But forth afield the angels

Were singing in the air ;
And when the shepherds heard the news,

To that Child they did repair.

" The wise men, also, from the East
Were guided by a star, —
Oh, I wonder often, at this day,
Where those good wise men are ! "

Milton's " Hymn on the Nativity," from which
we copy a few lines, is among the grandest of
Christmas poems. Written when the great poet
was a very young man, it is full of the noble rhythm
which makes all his poetry so wonderful.

the one, for instance,

the " Hymn on the Nativity
beginning —

" But peaceful was the night
W T herein the Prince of Light
His reign of peace upon the earth began ; "
or this :

" Ring out, ye crystal spheres!
Once bless our human ears,
If ye have power to touch our senses so;
And let your silver chime
Move in melodious time ;
And let the base of Heaven's deep organ blow," —

and you will feel what rhythm is, without explana-
tion.

Milton was a very learned poet, but that has not
prevented him from being a favorite with a great
many children. Grown-up people cannot always
decide for the younger ones what they shall ad-

THK HEAVEN-BORN CHILD.

Now, children, look in your dictionary and find
out what "rhythm" means, for you cannot know
much about poetry unless you have some idea of
rhythm. If you are not satisfied with the definition
in the dictionary, we will explain it as the tune to
which poetry goes ; for the best poetry always has
a tune, which is part of itself, like the stir of pine-
forests in the wind, or the sound of a mighty river
as it sweeps along. There are many kinds of
rhythm — flute-like, bugle-like, piano-like ; it may
have any musical resemblance you can think of.
But Milton's poetry seems filled with the deep,
strong harmonies of the organ, upon which he
loved to play when he became a blind old man.
If you have an ear for music, ask any one who
knows how, to read aloud to you some verses from

mire, and grand poetry often takes the childish ear
and heart more than rhymes prepared expressly for
juvenile readers.

This is because a love of rhythm, or harmony, is
born with us, and we cannot help enjoying it,
whether we understand the words it is shaped into
or not. Who understands the roar of the cataract,
or the mighty organ-swell of the sea ? The aged
man knows their meaning no better than the little
child. To both they bring wonder, and delight,
and awe. And so it is with the voices of greal
poets in their highest inspiration. Old and younf
are alike charmed with the music that comes frorr
the soul when it is nearest to nature and to God.

I remember that when under ten years old a
school, the favorite piece in the reading-book, witl

i8 7 6.]

POEMS AND CAROLS OF WINTER.

6 7

myself and other school-mates about my age, was
Coleridge's " Hymn at Sunrise in the Vale of
Chamouni." In the midst of our playing, one of
us would sometimes break out with a line of it.
mother would take it up, and so it would be carried
on, until, alone or in concert, we had repeated the
whole. Indeed, though I have never seen the
Alps, it often seems to me as if I must have visited
:hem in my childhood, through the vision that then
;ame to me, and lingers with me, in the lines —

" Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven
Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun
Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?"

And I remember also, that the poem I liked best,
ong before I had outgrown Dr. Watts's " Divine

to this day. And I do not think my tastes were
unlike those of many of my child-companions, —
nor that the children of to-day are very different
from those who lived forty years ago.

The best poetry belongs to those who can enjoy
it best, without regard to age. This rule — if it is
a rule — works both ways. A perfect child-poem
will be one that men and women also will take
delight in ; for, through poetry as well as religion,
we are all of us in some ways — or ought to become,
— " as little children."

So do not be afraid, children, to claim your grand
poetical favorites, and do not be ashamed of your
humble and childish ones. If they are real poets,
they all belong to one family.

We were speaking of Christmas poems, — Christ-
mas ! — that we all recognize as the loveliest and

HE SHl-.PHEKDS HEAUD THE NEWS.

;>ongs" and Jane Taylor's "Hymns for Infant
vlinds," — the classics of my Puritan childhood, —
r/as Milton's " Paradise Lost." Of course I skipped
.11 the learned dialogues that went on in heaven
,md in the Garden of Eden ; but the beautiful gar-
ten itself, where grew

" Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose,"

.nd the wonderful palace of Pandemonium, that
,•' rose like an exhalation," lighted by

" Many a row
Of starry lamps and blazing cressets,"

xed themselves as unfading pictures in my mind ;
nd the "harpings and hallelujahs" that seemed
d roll through the poem, resound in my thoughts

most welcome guest brought us by winter. Merry
Christmas ! that comes to us loaded with gifts, and
that we, in return, delight to wreathe with ever-
green, and bright autumn leaves, and greenhouse
rose-buds, and all fragrant and brilliant blossoms.

In memory of that Flower Divine,
Whose fragrance fills the world.

A very sweet poem, bringing Christmas before
us in several different characters, is this, by Rose
Terry (now Mrs. Cooke) :

Christmas.

" Here comes old Father Christmas,
With sound of fife and drums ;
With mistletoe about his brows,
So merrily he comes !

POEMS AND CAROLS OF WINTER.

[December,

His arms are full of aJl good cheer.

His face with laughter glows,
He shines like any household fire

Amid the cruel snows.
He is the old folks' Christmas ;

He warms their hearts like wine,
He thaws their winter into spring.

And makes their faces shine-
Hurrah for Father Christmas !

Ring all the merry bells !
And bring the grandsires all around

To hear the tale he tells.

' Here comes the Christmas Angel,

So gentle and so calm;
As softly as the falling flakes,

He comes with flute and psalm.
All in a cloud of glory,

As once upon the plain
To shepherd boys in Jewry,

He brings good news again.
He is the young folks' Christmas ;

He makes their eyes grow bright
With words of hope and tender thought.

And visions of delight.
Hail to the Christmas Angel !

All peace on earth he brings ;
He gathers all the youths and maids

Beneath his shining wings.

' Here comes the little Christ-child,

All innocence and joy,
And bearing gifts in either hand

For every girl and boy.
He tells the tender story

About the Holy Maid,
And Jesus in the manger

Before the oxen laid.
Like any little winter bird

He sings this sweetest song,
Till all the cherubs in the sky

To hear his carol throng.
He is the children's Christmas;

They come, without a call.
To gather round the gracious Child,

Who bringeth joy to all.

' But who shall bring their Christmas,

Who wrestle still with life r
Not grandsires, youths, nor little folks.

But they who wage the strife :
The fathers and the mothers

Who fight for homes and bread.
Who watch and ward the living,

And bury all the dead.
Ah ! by their side at Christmas-tide

The Lord of Christmas stands ;
He smooths the furrows from their brow

With strong and tender hands.
' I take my Christmas gift,' he saith,
' From thee, tired soul, and he
Who giveth to my little ones

Gives also unto me!'"

Another of our welcome winter guests is Happy
New Year, brought in like a smiling baby in its
white christening-robes, to be tossed about from
one to another with good wishes and feasting and
laughter. You might fill many volumes with the
poetry that has been written about the New Year.

But the wonder and beauty of winter itself are
what the poets of the North have loved to show.

We sometimes think of winter as the most un-

poetic among the seasons ; but there is a different
way of looking at it. The snow is a blank sheet
to some eyes, but not to all. A fresh snow-drift is
often molded like the most exquisite sculpture, and I
its waves and lines and shadows are a joy to artistic
eyes. The tints it reveals in the sunset rays are!
purer than any color we know, and suggest the j
light that may shine upon us in some lovelier world
which we have not yet seen.

And the falling of the snow — how delicate and
dreamy it is ! There are poems through which
it seems to glide as airily as it descends from the
sky itself.

This is the way Thomson, the poet of " The
Seasons," describes it :

" Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends.
At first thin wavering, till at last the flakes
Fall broad and wide and fast, dimming the day
With a continual flow. The cherished fields
Put on their winter robe of purest white.
'Tis brightness all, save where the new snow melts
Along the mazy current Low the woods
Bow their hoar heads; and ere the languid sun,
Faint from the west, emits his evening ray,
Earth's universal face, deep hid and chill,
Is one wild, dazzling waste, that buries wide
The works of man."

And somebody else writes of the snow-flakes a
the blossoms of winter:

♦

Softly down from the cold, gray sky,
On the withering air, they flit and fly ;
Resting anywhere, there they lie, —

The feathery flowers !
Borne on the breath of the wintry day,
Leaves and flowers and gems are they,
Fresh and fair as the gay array

Of the sunlit hours "

Still, again, they are spoken of by a poet (Joh
James Piatt) as flowers exiled from the gardens c
heaven :

" The wonderful snow is falling,

Over river and woodland and wold;

The trees bear spectral blossoms
In the moonlight blurred and cold.

" There 's a beautiful garden in heaven ;
And these are the banished flowers,
Fallen and driven and drifting
To this dark world of ours ! "

You will remember Bryant's Ci Snow-Shower,"

'■ Flake after flake,
Dissolved in the dark and silent lake," —

and Longfellow's " Snow-flakes":

" Out of the bosom of the air,

Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent and soft and slow
Descends the snow."

POEMS AND CAROLS OF WINTER.

6 9

Is it not true, as he says, that

" This is the poem of the air,

Slowly in silent syllables recorded, —
Now whispered and revealed
To wold and field?"

A merrier little song, and one that American
children have long been familiar with, is Hannah
Gould's " It Snows" :

" It snows! it snows! From out the sky
The feathered flakes how fast they fly !
Like little birds, that don't know why
They 're on the chase, from place to place,
While neither can the other trace.
It snows! it snows! A merry play
Is o'er us in the air to-day!

" As dancers in an airy hall
That hasn't room to hold them all,
While some keep up, and others fall,
The atoms shift, then, thick and swift,
They drive along to form the drift,
That waving up, so dazzling white,
Is rising like a wall of white.

" But now the wind comes whistling loud,
To snatch and waft it as a cloud,
Or giant phantom in a shroud.
It spreads, it curls, it mounts, and whirls;
At length a mighty wing unfurls,
And then, away ! — but where, none knows,
Or ever will. It snows ! it snows !

"To-morrow will the storm be done;
Then out will come the golden sun.
And we shall see upon the run,
Before his beams, in sparkling streams,
What now a curtain o'er him seems.
And thus with life it ever goes !
'Tis shade and shine! It snows! it snows!"

How strange it must seem to live in a country
where snow never comes ! The natives of such
countries will not believe the frosty and icy stories
told them by travelers from colder regions. Stranger
still it must seem to them when, at long intervals,
they are visited by a snow-storm.

Bruce, the African traveler, tells us that an aged
Abyssinian once drew him aside, to tell him, as a
threat wonder, that when he was a young man
something white one day descended from the sky,
:overing the earth, and disappearing as silently as
t came. Some one has very prettily versified this
story of

Snow in Abyssinia.

" Bruce of Kinnaird could scarce repress the smile

That twitched the bearded ambush of his mouth.
When, in his quest of the mysterious Nile,

Amid the perilous wilds of the swart South,
An old man told him, with a grave surprise

Which made his child-like wonder almost grand,
How, in his youth, there fell from out the skies

A feathery whiteness over all their land, —
A strange, soft, spotless something, pure as light,

For which their questioned language had no name,
That shone and sparkled for a day and night.

Then vanished all as weirdly as it came.

Leaving no vesrige, gleam, or hue, or scent,

On the round hills or in the purple air,
To satisfy their mute bewilderment

That such a presence had indeed been there ! "

And you may have read of the little Barbadoes
girl who, when she came to a northern country,
and saw the snow falling for the first time, cried
out that the angels were emptying their feather-
beds upon the earth !

When the north wind sets our teeth chattering,
and pierces us with needles of frost, we sigh for a
climate where summer is perpetual. Yet no — not
" we " exactly ; for there is nothing that a healthy
child delights in more than the wild, stormy mirth
that winter brings.

Childhood and Winter are the best of playmates.
Like some kind, rough old grandsire, he sets the
boys and girls running races, tosses them about
among the snow-drifts, and pushes them along the
ice until they are rosy and strong with the merry
exercise. Look at this German portrait of win-
ter, boys, and see if you do not like it :

" Old Winter is a sturdy one,

And lasting stuff he's made of;
His flesh is firm as iron-stone;
There 's nothing he 's afraid of.

" Of flowers that bloom, or birds that sing,
Full little cares or knows he ;
He hates the fire, and hates the spring,
And all that 's warm and cosey.

" But when the foxes bark aloud
On frozen kike and river, —
When round the fire the people crowd,
And rub their hands and shiver, —

" When frost is splitting stone and wall,

And trees come crashing after, —

That hates he not, but loves it all;

Then bursts he out in laughter.

" His home is by the North Sea's strand,
Where earth and sea are frozen ;
His summer home, we understand,
In Switzerland he's chosen."

But when any of us dream of summer lands in
winter-time, we must remember how much that is
rare and curious and wonderful the people of the
tropics lose, in never seeing icicles or frost-work,
or what Emerson calls

" The frolic architecture of the snow."

as Whittier describes it, for instance, in picturing
for us the winter farm-life of his boyhood :

" Strange domes and towers
Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood,
Or garden-wall, or belt of wood ;
A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed ;
A fenceless drift what once was road ;
The bridle-post an old man sat,
With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat;

POEMS AND CAROLS OF WINTER

(December/i

The well-curb had a Chinese roof;
And even the long sweep, high aloof.
In its slant splendor, seemed to tell
Of Pisa's leaning miracle;"

or as it is given
First Snow-fall " :

Lowell's lovely poem, "The

1 The snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.

beauty of the summer woods, shows them to us uv
their wintry whiteness :

" But winter has yet brighter scenes, — he boasts
Splendors beyond what gorgeous summer knows;
Or autumn with his many fruits, and woods
All flushed with many hues. Come when the rains
Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice ;
While the slant sun of February pours
Into the bowers a flood of light Approach !
The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps,
And the broad arching portals of the grove

THE FIRST SNOW-FALL.

" Every pine and fir and hemlock

Wore ermine too dear for an earl ;

And the poorest twig on the elm-tree

Was ridged inch-deep with pearl.

" From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
Came chanticleer's muffled crow;
The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down,
And still fluttered down the snow."

And see how Bryant, who paints so well the

Welcome thy entering. Look ! the mossy trunks
Are cased in the pure crystal ; each light spray,
Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven,
Is studded with its trembling water-drops,
That stream with rainbow radiance as they move."

And Whittier, in his " Pageant," bids us look

" Where, keen against the walls of sapphire.
The gleaming tree-boles, ice-embossed.
Hold up their chandeliers of frost."

. 1876.J

POEMS AND CAROLS OF WINTER.

In the ice-gleaming, sunlit forest, he exclaims :

" I tread in Orient halls enchanted,

I dream the Saga's dream of caves,
Gem-lit, beneath the North Sea waves.

" I wall; the land of Eldorado;

I touch its mimic garden -bowers,

Its silver leaves and diamond flowers."

You see, little friends, that there is a poetry of
snow and ice as well as of flowers and fields and
rivers. Here is a specimen of it from Thomson :

" An icy gale, oft shifting, o'er the pool
Breathes a blue film, and in its mid career
Arrests the bickering stream. The loosened ice,
Let down the flood, and half dissolved by day,
Rustles no more ; but to the sedgy bank.
Fast grows, or gathers round the pointed stone
A crystal pavement, by the breath of Heaven
Cemented firm; till, seized from shore to shore,
The whole imprisoned river growls below."

That last line, which compares the stream to a
caged lion under the ice, has been said to be the
best description of a frozen river in the language.

For all the cold, there are live things in the
woods in winter. Bryant found them there :

" The pure, keen air abroad,
Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heard
Love-call of bird nor merry hum of bee,
Was not the air of death. Bright mosses crept
Over the spotted trunks, and the close buds,
That lay along the boughs, instinct with life,
Patient, and waiting the soft breath of spring,
Feared not the piercing spirit of the North.
The snow-bird twittered on the bcechen bough,
And 'neath the hemlock, whose thick branches bent
Beneath its bright cold burden, and kept dry
A circle on the earth of withered leaves.
The partridge found a shelter. Through the snow
The rabbit sprang away. The lighter track
Of fox, and the raccoon's broad path, were there,
Crossing each other. From his hollow tree,
The squirrel was abroad, gathering the nuts
Just fallen, that asked the winter cold, and sway
Of winter blast, to shake them from their hold."

And Emerson writes of a little friend he met
in the deep forest on a stinging day of midwinter :

" Piped a tiny voice hard by.
Gay and polite, a cheerful cry,
' Chic-chicadeedee ! '—saucy note.
Out of sound heart and merry throat,
As if it said, ' Good day, good sir !
Fine afternoon, old passenger!
Happy to meet you in these places,
Where January brings few faces '"

Then he tells us that the bird, glad to meet his

' Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand,
Hopped on the bough, then, darting low,
Prints his small impress on the snow,
Shows feats of his gymnastic play,
Head downward, clinging to the spray."

The titmouse, or snow-bird, you know, has a
different song for different seasons, —

" In spring
Crying out oi the hazel-copse, ' Phe-be ! '
And in winter, ' Chic-a-dee-dee ! ' "

Dear little fellow ! No wonder the poets have
sung of him so often. Doubtless one of your best-
known pieces from babyhood is Hannah Gould's

"Oh, what will become of thee, poor little bird?
The muttering storm in the distance is heard,"

She speaks of the snow-bird as the "Winter

King,"

1 Because in all weather I 'm happy and free,
They call me the Winter King. Pee-dee-dee ! "

We cannot help loving the snow-birds, they are
so neighborly, calling upon us at our door-steps, as
well as keeping company with us in the leafless
forest-paths. It does us good to have our little
cousins of the woods, who do not know our alpha-
bet, come and ask us, in their own language, for
such small favors as we can bestow upon them.

A pretty song, with this idea in it, has been
written by Mrs. Anderson, who has made many
other charming verses for children :

" When winter winds are blowing.

And clouds are full of snow,
There comes a flock of little birds,

A-flying to and fro;
About the withered garden.

Around the naked field.
In any way-side shrub or tree,

That may a berry yield,
You'll see them flitting, flitting,

And hear their merry song;
The scattered crumbs of summer's feast

Feed winter birdlings long.

" But when the snow-drifts cover

The garden and the field, —
When all the shrubs are cased in ice,

And every brook is sealed,
Then come the little snow-birds.

As beggars, to your door;
They pick up every tiny crumb,

With eager chirps for more.
Like wandering musicians,

They 'neath the windows sing ;
All winter long they stroll about,

And leave us in the spring.

" Off" to the land of icebergs,

To islands cold and drear,
They fly before the summer comes

To frolic with us here.
Give them a hearty welcome !

It surely were not good
That they who sing in winter-time

Should ever lack for food."

If there were less beauty upon the outside earth
in winter, there would still be the charm of home-
life, which is always more perfect in a cold climate.

POEMS AND CAROLS OF WINTER.

[December

One stronger reason than all others for being glad
that we live in the temperate zone, is that it is the
zone of homes.

Greenlanders and Laplanders, it is said, each
consider their own country the fairest the sun shines
upon, and charming stories of domestic life have
come to us from those icy latitudes. But the Esqui-
maux and Kamtchatkans. and those inhabitants
of extreme Arctic regions who must live in snow-
huts, or burrow underground for warmth,- cannot
know the rich and tender meanings the word
" home " has for us.

How much comfort there is in our cosey houses
alone, — in the clean, warm room, perhaps with a
glowing fireside ; the white table spread with
wholesome and delicate food ; the cheerful circle
around the lamp at evening ; the books, the sew-
ing, the games ; the sound sleep of the long, snowy
night, in beds as white as the drifts outside ; and
the many other nameless blessings of a civilized
home ! These the children of the eternal snows
must do without.

There is more poetry in a really beautiful home-
life than in the finest natural scenery ; but it lies
too deep in the heart for words to express. It is
poetry that is felt rather than spoken. A happy
home is a poem which every one of the family is
helping to write, each for the enjoyment of the rest,
by little deeds of tenderness and self-sacrifice, which
mean so much more than words. This home-poem
is all the more delightful because it does not ask
or need admiration from anybody outside. The
poetry that people live in, of which they are a part,
and which is a part of them, is always the most
satisfactory, because it is the most real.

Think, little folks, of all the poems and frag-
ments of poems you know, that never could have
been written except in a country where tempest
and sleet and long hours of darkness drove men
and women and children within-doors, and kept
them there to find out how dear and sweet a thing
it is for a family to live together in love.

The list is a long one, so long that it is of no use
to try to fill it out here. But a hint or two, and a
few extracts, may put you on the track of a great
many beautiful things.

There is Cowper's : 'Task," — a domestic poem
throughout, and in great part a winter poem, too,
— with its famous tea-table picture :

" Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And, while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups,
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in."

If you do not care to drink tea with the poet
Cowper, you may like to hear him talk of the post-

man, and the budget of news he brings ; or of the:
Empress of Russia's wonderful palace of ice.

Then, there is Burns's "Cotter's Saturday Night," 1
which it will be strange if most of you do not enjoy.;
it is so full of pictures. You seem to be inside of
the Scottish cottage, where

" The mither, wi' her needle and her shears,

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;"

while outside

"November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh."

There is Emerson's indoor view of a snow-storm :

" Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight. The whited air
Hides hiils and woods, the river and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the house-mates sit
Around the radiant fire-place, inclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm."

If you have ever known what it is to be shut inl
with a happy household through a long, driving:
winter storm, those last two lines will often be com-;'
ing back to you, after you have read them, as onei
of the cosiest of home-pictures. That " tumultuous;
privacy of storm," how deep and close and warm:
it is !

Best of all, perhaps, — certainly the finest epic of
old-fashioned New England family-life ever written.;
— is Whittier's " Snow-Bound." " Epic" may not!
be the right word to use, and yet why not ? It -isi
" narrative," and "heroic " adventures are achieved!
by the men and boys out-of-doors in meeting tht^
snows and the winds ; while within, mother and:
aunt and sisters weave together a web of home-liftl
lovelier than anything to be shown by Penelope, ot
Helen of Troy.

By such a fireside as that described in " Snow-
Bound," with the red blaze flashing up

" Until the old, rude-furnished room
Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom,"

one might well be

" Content to let the north wind roar
In baffled rage at pane and door."

Children of the old-fashioned days had a hare
time, perhaps ; but it was worth a great deal to live
around one of those deep, log-heaped fire-places
It was "jolly," as you boys would say, to hear how

" When a louder blast
Shook beam and rafter as it passed,
The merrier up its roaring draught
The great throat of the chimney laughed."

We must not forget one poetic thing that winte:

POEMS AND CAROLS OF WINTER.

1876.]

. does for us all indoors, however humble our dwell-
ing may be ; and that is to decorate our window-
panes, making them more exquisite in their white,
delicate tracery than the stained glass of ancient

-cathedrals. This is Jack Frost's work, and we are

I told, in one case, how he did it :

" He went to the window of those who slept,
And over each pane like a fairy crept.
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stept,

By the morning light were seen
Most beautiful things ! There were flowers and trees,
There were bevies of birds, and swarms of bees,
There were cities and temples and towers ; and these

All pictured in silver sheen '. "

There is a dark and cheerless side to winter,
which is not to be forgotten even by the poets.
Thomson has written of it, as you will find in the

You bring poetry into a life, whenever you bring
it any real happiness. Think of that, dear chil-
dren, and see how many hearts you can make sing
aloud for joy !

There is a legend of the Child Jesus, which tells
how he made flowers bloom and birds sing in the
midst of winter, by a smile of love given to his
mother. A beautiful meaning may be drawn from
this. Love is the true sunshine, and all children
can make a cold world blossom with it, after the
example of the Holy Child.

The Child Jesvs in the Garden.

" Cold was the day, when in a garden bare,

Walked the Child Jesus, wrapt in holy thought ;
H is brow seemed clouded with a weight of care :
Calmness and rest from worldly things he sought.

THE CHILD JESUS IN THE GARDEN.

;, "Seasons." He draws a picture of a man lost in
the snow, so vivid as to awaken our sympathies

1 very painfully.

And Wordsworth has told us the piteous story
of" Lucy Gray," —

" The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door," — •

how she wandered up and down the moor, bewil-
dered by the falling snow, and perished at last in
sight of her own dwelling.

And Bryant's " Little People of the Snow."
although so dazzling in its fairy fancies, contains
a sad story of a similar kind.

To the very poor, who suffer for want of food
and fuel, winter is anything but poetical. It is the
privilege of those who are better off. to make it a
pleasant season to them, and to supply the heart-
sunshine and home-warmth, without which winter
is bitter indeed. A little kindness goes a great way
toward brightening dark days and warming up
snow-drifts.

" Soon was his presence missed within his home ;
His mother gently marked his every way ;
Forth then she came to seek where he did roam,
Full of sweet words his trouble to allay.

" Through chilling snow she toiled to reach his side,
Forcing her way mid branches brown and sere,
Hastening that she his sorrows might divide,
Share all his woe, or calm his gloomy fear.

" Sweet was her face, as o'er his head she bent,
Longing to melt his look of saddest grief.
With lifted eves, his ear to her he lent ;
Her kindly solace brought his sou] relief.

" Then did he smile — a smile nf love so deep.
Winter himself grew warm beneath its glow ;
From drooping branches scented blossoms peep r
Up springs the grass : the scaled fountains flow.

" Summer and spring did with each other vie.
Offering to Him the fragrance of their store ;
Chanting sweet notes, the birds around him fly.

Wondering why earth had checkered so her floor."

Every season has a beauty of its own, and the
poets usually find it out for us, or else show us that

POEMS AND CAROLS OF WINTER.

[December.

there is a poetry of the gloomy and terrible as well
as of the beautiful. So Cowper says :

" O Winter, ruler of the inverted year,

Thy scattered hair with sleet like ashes filled,
Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks
Fringed with a beard made white with other snows
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds,
A leafless branch thy scepter, and thy throne
A sliding car, indebted to no wheels,
But urged by storms along its slippery way, —
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st.
And dreaded as thou art ! "

But we come back, in spite of our attempt to
look on the dark side, to the brightness and jollity
of the winter months. Where is there fun like
that of skating? Hear the poet Allingham sing
of it :

" The time of frost is the time for me !
When the gay blood spins through the heart with glee,
When the voice leaps out with a chiming sound.
When the footstep rings on the musical ground.
When the earth is gay, and the air is bright,
And every breath is a new delight.

" Hurrah ! the lake is a league of glass ! —
Buckle and strap on the stiff white grass !
Off we shoot, and poise and wheel.
And swiftly turn upon scoring heel ;
And our flying sandals chirp and sing,
Like a flock of gay swallows on the wing ! "

And sleighing-songs innumerable might be brought
together ; but we will only take, at present, a verse
or two bv Stedman :

' In January, when down the dairy
The cream and clabber freeze,
When snow-drifts cover the fences over,
We farmers take our ease.

At night we rig the team,

And bring the cutter out;
Then fill it, fill it, fill it,
And heap the furs about.

' Here friends and cousins dash up by dozens,
And sleighs at least a score ;
There John and Molly, behind, are jolly, —
Nell rides with me, before.

All down the village street

We range us in a row:
Now jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle,
And over the crispy snow!"

Now, children, which season is pleasantest — I
which has most poetry in it ? This is so hard a 1
question to answer, it must be settled by leaving it J
open on all sides, as it is here, in " Marjorie'sl
Almanac," by Aldrich :

" Robins in the tree-top,

Blossoms in the grass,
Green things a-growing

Everywhere you pass ;
Sudden litUe breezes,

Showers of silver dew,
Black bough and bent twig

Budding out anew ;
Pine-tree and willow-tree,

Fringed elm, and larch —
Don't you think that May-time's

Pleasanter than March?

" Apples in the orchard,

Mellowing one by one ;
Strawberries upturning

Soft cheeks to the sun ;
Roses faint with sweetness,

Lilies fair of face,
Drowsy scents and murmurs

Haunting every place ;
Lengths of golden sunshine,

Moonlight bright as day —
Don't you think that summer's

Pleasanter than May ?

" Roger in the corn-patch,

WhisUing negro songs;
Pussy by the hearth-side,

Romping with the tongs ;
Chestnuts in the ashes,

Bursting through the rind;
Red leaf and gold leaf

Rustling down the wind ;
Mother "doin' peaches"

All the afternoon —
Don't you think that autumn 's

Pleasanter than June?

" Little fairy snow-flakes

Dancing in the flue;
Old Mr. Santa Clans,

What is keeping you ?
Twilight and firelight;

Shadows come and go;
Merry chime of sleigh-bells,

Tinkling through the snow;
• Mother knitting stockings

(Pussy's got the ball) —
Don't you think that winter's

Pleasanter than all ? "

i8 7 6.J

NO POCKET.

By Sarah Winter Kellogg.

T was at Katie McPherson's
Christmas party that the
announcement was made. —
in the dining-room, where
the scores of bright chil-
dren were assembled to
partake of the good things
which Mrs. McPherson had
bountifully provided, — Jim-
my Johnson made the an-
nouncement, and this it was :
" Bushy Caruthers aint got
no pocket ! "

Jimmy delivered this in
such tones and with such a manner as he might
have used if he had said: '' Bushy Caruthers aint
got no thumbs ! " or " Bushy Caruthers aint got
no nose ! "

"Hasn't he?" said Bobby Smedley, with as
much eager concern as Jimmy Johnson, or, indeed,
the most exacting news-bearer could have asked or
desired.

" Has n't he ?" said also Dickey Simpkins.
There was that in Dickey's tone which added,
" I 'm glad I 'm not in Bushy's trousers."

Nellie Partridge, who was one of Jimmy John-
son's audience, opened her eyes roundly and puck-
ered her mouth into a perfect O, and then gave
vent to a long " W-h-y ! " of astonishment.

"No, he aint got no pocket," Jimmy repeated,
with no abatement in his can-you-believe-it manner.
" That's 'cause he 's a little boy," said Tommy
Mayneer, who was large of his age.

With this explanation. Tommy thrust his hands
into his trousers' pockets, drew himself up to the
full capacity of his inches, and marched back and
forth a few paces with great dignity.

Nellie Partridge, who, I much fear, will in time
grow to be a gossip, hurried over to the group of
children in the next corner, and repeated, with
solemn eyes :

" Say ! Bushy Caruthers aint got no pocket ! "
-' Did you ever ? " said one little auditor. "It's
too bad," said another. "Why!" exclaimed a
third, hurrying away to carry the story to the next
group of children. Then the word went to the
company of little folks collected at the window ;
thence to the children outside the dining-room
door in the hall, on and on, until everybody knew
that Bushy Caruthers was so unfortunate as to be
at a party where candy and nuts and oranges and

all manner of good things abounded, and where
there was a Christmas-tree, and yet to have no
pocket.

What made it worse was, that it was Mrs.
McPherson's way at her Katie's Christmas parties
always to insist upon each little guest filling his or
her pockets with good things " to take home."

Poor Bushy !

After a while the word reached Bush)' himself.
Of course he knew he had n't any pocket before
the children flocked around him with their expres-
sions of condolence and their eager inquiries and
exclamations of concern ; but until he had heard
these, and seen the consternation in the little faces,
he had no conception of the magnitude of his mis-
fortune. When this really dawned upon Bushy,
he thought he ought to cry ; but that seemed too
much like baby-conduct. So he perked up his
head with an heroic look in his funny little face,
and rolled his eyes from one to another of his con-
dolers, as if he would say, "Well, if I aint got
any pocket, I 'm going to bear my trouble like a
man."

"Well, Bushy," Barney Williamson advised,
" you eat all the candy and jelly and nuts and cake
and oranges you can hold."

"What makes um call you Bushy, anyhow?"
asked Henry Clay Martin. " You aint bushy a
bit; you're slick as my black-and-tan terrier,"
and Henry Clay looked the unfortunate over from
the crown of his glossy black head to the soles of
his polished gaiters.

" My name's Bushrod, and they call me Bushy
for short," was the explanation ; whereupon a
dozen or more children proceeded to tell what
their right names were and what they were called
for short.

Meantime Bushy, in accordance with Barney
Williamson's advice, was engaged in storing away
cakes and candies, regardless of headaches and
doctors. At the end of fifteen minutes he had
probably discovered the limit of his capacity ; for
at this time he went over to his papa with both
hands full of bon-bons, and emptied them in that
gentleman's big coat-pocket ; and when papa
looked behind him for an explanation of the pull-
ings, and so on. Bushy said, pathetically :

" I aint got no pocket, papa."

" You have no pocket, you mean.'' corrected
papa, gently.

" Yes, sir, I have n't no pocket.

NO POCKET.

[December

In a few moments he was back again, and papa mamma's silk dress were disturbed, and down 01
felt another tugging at his coat behind, and heard top of her lace handkerchief streamed the cand'
something rattling down into his pocket ; again and nuts from Bushy's overflowing hands, attendee

came the explanation from Bushy : "I aint got no
pocket, papa."

It was not long after this before the folds of

UPSTAIRS TO THE CHRISTMAS-TREE.

" I aint got nc
we must all take

by the inevitable explanation
pocket, mamma. Katie says
home something."

Again and again was the silk-dress pocket visited
for it was roomy, and mamma, busy in conversa
tion, was unconscious of the visitations.

Then Bushy's sister, Minnie, thirteen years old,
was petitioned to lend the aid of her pocket to the
pocketless boy. Beside this, Bobby Smedley, whose
home was just across the street from Bushv's, vol-
unteered the loan of one-quarter of one of his
pockets for the transportation of Bushy's nick
nacks. Miriam Endicott, who lived next door tc
the unfortunate boy, hearing of Bobby Smedley's
generosity, forthwith devoted a half of her roomy
pocket to Bushy's relief.

But it was when the children had gone upstair:
to the parlors where the Christmas-tree stood, thai
Bushy's concern attained its height.

" S'pose," he said to Barney Williamson, remem
bering Barney's role as adviser, " s'pose I was tc
get a great lot of things — that ball " — and ht
pointed to the spangled, radiant tree, with it
wonderful blossoms and fruit — " and that top, and
that drum, and that trumpet with a whistle, and
oh ! them two wrasling heathen Chinee, and that
whistle, and that cannon, and that velocipede, and
that locomotive, and that there wheel-barrow, and
a great lot more, how could I get them all home ?
'cause I aint got no pocket, you know."

"Well I'll tell you," said the ready Barney.

j8 7 6.]

CLUCK-A- LUCKS STRANGE CHILDREN.

," I '11 pack all the other things in your wheelbar-
row, you know, and roll 'em home for you."

Bushy did get the wheel-barrow, sure enough,
and soon had it loaded up.

You may well believe there was laughing at
Bushy's house when all the pockets were emptied,
and all the boxes and baskets. Such heaps of
candy ! such piles of cakes ! such quantities of
almonds and raisins, mottoes, lady-apples, oranges,
and other good things, as were displayed ! In
Bushy's eagerness he had actually smuggled a

chicken's wing and buttered biscuit into his mother's
keeping. There was enough, as he said, ecstati-
cally, for another party.

If he had gone to Katie's entertainment with
pockets all over his chubby little form, he could
not have fared so well.

" Mamma," said Bushy, gravely, as he cracked
an almond between his white teeth, his black eyes,
meanwhile, sweeping the table which held his col-
lection of sweets, "don't never put no pocket in
my party-breeches."

cluck-A-lucks

STANCE CHILDREN

By E. Muller.

; Of course Cluck-a-Iuck thought she had been
v sitting on her own eggs. Why should she not
think so ? There were ten of them, just as many
; as she had counted when she first began to sit upon
I them ; so when her young brood turned out to be
ducklings, she was naturally surprised and dis-
. gusted. But that was the fanner's fault. Cluck-
i a-luck was such a good hen-mother that he chose
i'her to raise the brood of ducklings. For a duck-
j mother is such a careless creature — such a very
: careless creature! All she thinks of is her own
Jtoes, and how to say "Quack" amiably, and to
- plume herself. So Cluck-a-luck had to see her
fuzzy yellow brood step into the water at a spring-
pond, and paddle away from her, while she sat on
the shore and scolded at them.

" You '11 take your deaths of cold ! " she screamed,
when she found they did not drown, as she had

told them they would. "I shall have the whole
ten of you down with the croup," moaned Cluck-
a-Iuck, and she ran off to consult Grandpa Wattles,
the great Dorking cock. " Dear Grandpa Wattles!
what shall I do with my children ? None of our
family ever acted this way before ! "

" Took-a-rook-a-raw, raw." said Grandpa Wat-
tles, gravely ; he always said that when he felt
puzzled. " You must make allowances, make
allowances. Young folks are very different, now-
adays. You can't always tell how they are going
to turn out. Sometimes they are one thing and
sometimes they are another. Don't fret. Here 's
a fine grub for you. Don't fret."

So Cluck-a-luck ate the grub and stopped fret-
ting.

By and by the ducklings grew large and hand-
some, with fine purple necks and broad yellow bills.

CLUCK-A-LUCKS STRANGE CHILDREN.

[December,

A DUCK-MOTHER IS SUCH A CARELESS CREATURE !

" They really do me great credit," said Cluck-a-
luck, proudly, as she bade them good-bye, and
began to hatch out another brood.

This time the farmer had enough ducks, so he
allowed Cluck-a-luck to hatch out her own eggs.
A fine brood they were. Nine yellow little fuzzy
balls, with a little silvery chirp put inside of each
one, to make music for their mamma. Cluck-a-
luck was very proud of them, and as soon as they
were big enough, she led them out of the hen-house

into the barn- yard, and showed them to everybody
while she clucked delightedly. Then she tool
them to the pond.

"Peep-peep !" said all the little ones, "such
large water-trough ! "

"Well, why don't you go in? " asked Cluck-a
luck.

"Peep-peep! we don't want to," said they.

"What nonsense ! " cried Cluck-a-luck. "No
want to go in ? Why, your brothers and sister

THE WHOLE TEN OF THEM DOWN WITH THE CROUP.

.876.]

CLUCK-A-LUCK S STRANGE CHILDREN.

— J

"why do you suppose they spay down so long?"

ran in, of their own accord, before they were as old
as you. Go in at once, before they laugh at you."

"What's the matter there?" cried Shiny Tail,
one of the eldest duck-sons, coming up. " Afraid
to go in ? Give them a push, that's all they want."

So Cluck-a-luck led the little chickens to a board
that leaned out over the water, and then pushed
them in, first one, then another, till all the nine
were in the water.

"Peep-peep! it's very cold! It's very wet.
Peep-peep, p-e-e-p ! " cried all the little ones, and
then they went down under the water, and staid
there.

" Why do you suppose they stay down so long?"
asked Cluck-a-luck of Shiny Tail, who stood near.

" I 'm sure I don't know. I never staid down so
long," answered he, thoughtfully.

But the little chickens never came up again,
though Cluck-a-luck waited all day long for them,
and clucked till she was quite hoarse. So she ran
to Grandpa Wattles, and told him about it.

" Took-a-rook ," began Grandpa Wattles,

but seeing she felt very badly indeed, he stopped
before he got to "raw, raw," and said: "Now
don't fret, there 's a good creature. You have
made a little mistake in their education. You can't
always tell ; sometimes they turn out one thing,
and sometimes they "

" But they are all drowned, gone entirely ! "
interrupted Cluck-a-luck. " What am I to do ? "

"Well, well! Don't fret. Go and hatch another

brood. Here 's a fine caterpillar I Ye saved for you.
Don't fret," said Grandpa Wattles, very kindly.

So Cluck-a-luck ate the fine caterpillar and
stopped fretting, and began to hatch another brood.
While she was sitting, a weasel ate all her eggs but
two. These she hatched out, saying to herself:

"It is just as well ; there will be less trouble about
their education, when there are so few, and I shall
not go near the water with them, that 's certain."

WACKSY AND WEEPSY.

So, when they grew strong enough, she took
them up to the orchard, where there was no water,
and there little Wacksy and Weepsy were good

CLUCK-A-LUCK S STRANGE CHILDREN.

[December

and happy for a long time. Cluck-a-luck gave
them these names because one of them always said
" Wack " and the other one said "Weep," when
he cried.

The little things were very fond of each other,
and could not bear to be parted for a minute. One
day Cluck-a-luck missed them. She had just been .
taking her morning sand-bath, in a lovely dust-
hole under an apple-tree, and when she got up she
missed both her children. She ran to the barn-yard
and asked all her friends if they had seen her
children.

" I saw them a minute ago," said her cousin,

as possible, and he was squawking as only ayouni,
Shanghai cock can squawk, because he could no
be a duck, like Wacksy, and swim with her.

' ' It seems to me you have very strange children
Cluck-a-luck," said old Madam Brahma. "Then
must be something wrong in your system of educa.<
tion; my children never showed such dispositions.,;

" Oh dear ! oh dear ! " cried poor little Cluck
a-luck, " I 'm sure I don't know what it is. I '
done everything a mother could do, and I 'm dis
graced by them after it all."

Everybody stood watching and laughing at Cluck
a-luck's children. Everybody made remarks.

WACKSY AND WEEPSY

Pulletta. " It seems to me they were going down
to the pond."

"The pond! Oh, dreadful!" cried Cluck-a-
luck. " Then they will surely drown ! "

She hurried to the pond, and so did every one
else, and all the chickens and ducks and turkeys
and geese stood in a great crowd on the shore.
And what do you think they saw? There was
Wacksy, in the middle of the pond, swimming
proudly around, while Weepsy stood near the
shore, but up to his neck in the water, shrieking
for her to come back and play with him ! What
a disgraceful sight for a proud mamma! Weepsy's
long legs and long neck were stretched out as far

" Who in the world but a Dorking would thi
of hatching one duck and one great awkw;
Shanghai ! " exclaimed an aristocratic Bantam.

' ' How was I to know ? " asked poor Cluck
luck, indignantly. " I 'm sure I never knew thi
could be-so many different patterns of chickens.
I never would have hatched any ! "

Grandpa Wattles felt very sorry, but he co
not conscientiously advise her to go and try anotl
brood, so he only said ." Took-a-rook-a-raw, ra 1
and stood gazing at Wacksy and Weepsy, v
were still making themselves ridiculous.

" I '11 never hatch another brood ! " cried Clu
a-luck; "I'll never lay another egg! I'll

i7«-]

HIS OWN MASTER.

omewhere all by myself, and learn to crow ! "
lit this dreadful threat, all the other hens looked
t her and drew up their wings, and nodded at
ach other.

" You see she 's going to crow. I knew a hen
ho could not bring up her chickens properly
ould end by crowing. How very shocking ! "

" Oh, please don't, there 's a good creature,"
lid Grandpa Wattles. " You are an excellent
en-mother ; don't be discouraged ; don't crow ;

hens never crow unless they 're good for nothing
else."

" But I will crow," said Cluck-a-luck. " I feel
like doing something desperate. I can't make my
children behave, and none of you sympathize with
me."

So she went away and got on a high fence, and
crowed, and she tumbled over backward while she
was crowing, and broke her neck, and her claws
all curled up, and she was dead.

HIS OWN MASTER.

By J. T. Trowbridge.

Chaptrr I.

OUR HERO BEGINS THE WORLD.

Jacob Fortune, fifteen years old, barefooted,
vgged at the knees, and with locks of very light
ir showing through the torn crown of his old
aw hat, sat on the door-yard fence, looking lone-
me.

Jacob had never known father or mother ; and it

.s now three days since his aunt, who had brought

Ti up and given him a home in the old house

:re, was carried out of it and laid to rest in

: old burying-ground, just out of sight over

2 hill.

-,Jacob had not thought that he was very fond of

; aunt ; and if she felt any affection for him, she

d a rather odd way of showing it. She worked

rd herself, and made him work hard as soon as

was old enough. She made him go to meeting

1 Sunday-school, and would not let him play

:r sundown on Saturday. She kept bundles of

ed herbs, which she steeped, and was always

ing a little " yarb-drink " herself, because she

> sick, and making him take a little, not because

i was sick, but because she was afraid he would

She had no teeth, and she made him eat all

crusts. Then, too, she took snuff, and was

adfully sallow and wrinkled, and had a crooked

k, and sunken black eyes, and a harsh voice

1 temper which made him often wish that there

■ no such thing as an aunt in the world, and

ch put wicked thoughts into his head of running

iy, in order to be his own master.

lut now that there was no aunt in the world for

Vol. IV.— 6.

him, and he was his own master without running
away, poor Jacob sat on the fence there and thought
of all her real kindness to him, and remembered
with remorse how many things he had himself done
to make her cross and unhappy.

How empty the old house seemed without her !
How empty and dreary the world seemed ! He
knew now that there had always been in his heart
a great deal more love for her than he or she ever
suspected ; and he felt very much like going over
to the old burying-ground. throwing himself down
by her grave, and telling her so.

He was awfully lonesome, and was wishing that
somebody would come along and say something
to comfort him, when he saw Deacon Jaffers ap-
proaching.

'• May be he'll have a good word forme," thought
Jacob, brightening a little, not caring to be seen
looking melancholy.

The deacon, in his white starched linen, black
straw hat and cool alpaca coat, appearing every
way prosperous and well satisfied with himself,
stopped when he came opposite to Jacob, and
swung his buckhorn-headed cane.

" So you are a free man now, Jacob — eh ? " said
he. " And how do you like it ? "

" Don't know," said Jacob, with a sorry grin.
" It aint so lively as I thought it would be."

" Would you like any better to have a guardeen
appointed and put over ye ? There 's been talk
on 't," said Jaffers.

Jacob did not greatly fancy the idea of a guar-
dian.

" Would n't like to be bound out to some good

HIS OWN MASTER.

[Decemb

man, eh ? Wal, Jacob, you 've the name of being
a perty stiddy boy, and I don't know but you can
be trusted to look out for yourself. But you must
be industrious. Mus' n't set too long on the fence.
Keep on going to Sunday-school, and to meeting.
Don't be off nutting and fishing with bad boys, in
sermon-time ; your aunt never allowed that. Don't
play cards or drink. That 's my advice to you,
Jacob."

And the excellent deacon walked away, leaving
the boy's mind darkened by the hint of a guardian,
and his heart heavier than ever.

Presently a man drove along the street in a one-
horse wagon. He was broad as a tub, filling almost
the entire wagon-seat. He had a broad hat-brim,
and a broad, red face, and a broad smile on it
as he reined up by the fence where the boy was
sitting.

It was Friend David Doane, the Quaker, famed
for his butter and cheese. Jacob had always heard
that he was a kind man, and he felt a thrill of hope
as he thought, " I guess he will have a good word
for me."

" How does thee get on with the world, Jacob?
The world, Jacob," added Friend David, " is much
like an edged tool, good and useful to the wise who
take hold of it rightly by the handle."

Friend David looked like one who always held
firmly by the said handle, and knew how to use
the tool to his advantage. He went on :

" I hear that thy worthy aunt, before she died,
gave thee her cow, Jacob. How is it ? Has thee
a clear title ? "

" She gave me the cow in the presence of wit-
nesses, if that is what you mean," said Jacob.

" Thee is very young to be the owner of a cow ! "
— and the broad, smiling face beamed like a full
moon on Jacob. " What will thee do with her ? "

" Don't know," said Jacob, to whom the cow's
future looked as dubious as his own.

" Would thee like to sell her ? "

" Don't know."

" Will thee take twelve dollars for her ? "

" Folks have told me she is worth more than
that," replied Jacob.

" How much, then ? "

" Twenty-five dollars."

" Twenty-five dollars ! " repeated Friend David,
with a solemn shake of the broad hat-brim. " Thee
has been told amiss. I will give thee fifteen dollars
for the cow. Will that satisfy thee ? "

Jacob answered timidly that he did n't think he
ought to sell her for less than twenty-five. Friend
David regarded him sternly.

" Thee is beginning young, Jacob ! "

" Beginning to — to what ? " stammered the boy.
He was simply endeavoring in his poor way to hold

the world rightly by the handle, and could
understand how he had merited Friend Davij
crushing disapprobation.

The Quaker did not throw any light upon u
question, but raised his bid to sixteen dollars.

" That is because I would like to encourage tls
in well-doing," said David.

Which seemed so kind in him that Jacob >fe
almost made to feel that he would be an ungr«!>
ful wretch if he did not accept the offer.

'■ Sixteen dollars is a great deal of money fen
lad like thee ! What does thee say to it ? "

Jacob hung his head, and, being pressed furtlrj
murmured feebly, " I can't— really — take less ta
— twenty-five."

" Thee is a grasping lad — very grasping !" :iij
Friend David. "I would have been glad to J
friend thee, but I find I can do nothing for tie

HIS HEART HEAVIER THAN EVER.

thee is so grasping. If I should offer thee t\ltj
dollars, I dare say thee would take it, thougliha
knows it is too much."

Jacob was a patient fellow ; but he had ■
and will of his own, which he would somiBit!
show when provoked, as his late aunt knew \'fcl
sorrow, and as Friend David now discovered. .ft
felt that he was being imposed upon, and lomni
up and seeing something very much like culini
in the broad face, answered in the Quaker' t>w
language :

" Thee thinks wrong, Friend David. I Oil
not take twenty dollars for the cow if I knew W
too much, and I will not take it because I kiiv
well as thee that it is too little."

876.]

HIS OWN MASTER.

Friend David contracted his brows, compressed
is lips, gave Jacob a terrible look and his horse a
ouch with the whip, and drove on without a word.

The future did not look brighter to Jacob after
nis lesson. It was well to talk of holding the
'orld by the handle, but where everybody was try-
ig t0 g et an d keep a hold, would there not be
■ouble ?

Some boys now came along, who had a cat in a
asket, and a big dog.

" Hurrah, Jake ! " said they. " Come and have
jme fun."
1 " What ? " said Jacob.

" We 're goin' to let the cat loose in Towner's
oods and set the dog on her. If she climbs a
•ee, we'll club her off, and see him shake her."

Jacob was excited by the thought of sport. But
Sen a soft feeling rose in his unmanly breast re-
irding the cat.

" Oh, I would n't, Joe ! " said he.

"Wouldn't what?" cried Joe, the leader and
>okesman of the boys.

" I would n't club and dog the poor thing ! "
-nd yet Jacob had half made up his mind to go
•ith them and see the fun, if he could not pre-
-:nt it.
; The rebuke, however, nettled Joe, who cried :

Who asked ye to, anyway ? We '11 club you if
;)u come ! "

1 " You never 'd dare to do that, Joe Berry ! "
I "You try it ! Say three words, and I '11 heave

ock at you now ! "
v So saying, Joe stooped and picked up from the
;,ad, not exactly a rock, but a pebble of the size

a walnut, which he threatened to let fly at Jacob's

ad.

" Three words ! — there ! " exclaimed Jacob, de-

intly.

The stone was flung, but it hit only the rail on

lich Jacob was sitting. He made a motion to

mp down, whereat Joe, who was really a coward,

irted to run, followed by the other boys and the

j dog. A little way off they stopped and began
jeer him and look for stones — "rocks" they

lied them — by the road-side.

"Jake feels awful big since he had a funeral to

i house ! " said one.

"Sober, Jake is; guess he's going to study to
a minister," said another.

He's begun to preach," said Joe. "Here's

E ', J riething for his contribution-box," and he let fly

:I : other pebble.

Other stones followed, but all so wide of the mark
it Jacob sat quietly on the fence and merely
iked his contempt. The allusion to the funeral
i his low spirits hurt him worse than the stones
jld. He thought he had never heard anything

so mean and hateful ; and, since his own com-
panions had turned against him in this way, he felt
wretched and desolate enough.

The boys continued to throw stones as they slowly
retreated, until they were quite out of range ; then
hurried off with the basket and the dog.

As soon as there was nobody to see him, Jacob
gave way to his feelings and cried. He had not
got much comfort from anybody who came along
yet, and it was a bitter thought that he had missed
his only chance of a good time by refusing to join
hands with the wicked.

'• Why should I care for the cat? Why can't I
go and do like other boys who don't care ? " he
asked himself, almost repenting of the scruples
which had gained nothing for himself or the cat,
and only earned his companions' ill will.

But now the sight of another person approaching
caused him quickly to dry his tears.

" It's Professor Pinkey ! " thought Jacob.

Chapter II.

PROFESSOR ALPHONSE PINKEY.

Professor Alphonse Pinkey, the dancing-mas-
ter, was an airy youth, hardly more than twenty
years old, in very wide mouse-colored trousers, a
light-brown frock-coat buttoned with one button at
the waist, and an expansive shirt-front. He wore
his black hair in graceful ringlets, and had a
mustache and strip of beard which resembled a
fanciful letter T. Seeing Jacob, he waved his little
cane with a smile, and walked up and shook hands
with him.

" I did n't know you were in town," said Jacob.

'• I '111 not," said the professor. " That is, I'm
merely flitting through ; a bird of passage. Don't
get down ; let me get up."

And the bird of passage perched beside Jacob on
the fence.

When the professor kept a dancing-school in the
village the winter before, Jacob had attended it,
and swept the hall for his tuition. The aunt, who
was opposed to dancing, had known nothing of
this arrangement beyond the fact that Jacob took
care of the hall — to which circumstance the pro-
fessor now made some playful allusion.

Jacob looked sober.

" How is the dear old lady ? " cried Alphonse.

" She's dead — I thank you," faltered Jacob.

" Dead ! you don't say ! Excuse my ill-timed
levity. How long since ? "

" She has been buried three days."

'" How distressing ! You lived alone with her,
did n't you ?"

" Yes, — all alone."

" Well, well ! don't feel bad," said the professor,

8 4

HIS OWN MASTER.

[Decem j

thinking Jacob was going to choke. " Where do
you live now ? "

" Here ; that is, I stay here and take care of
things, but since she died I 've slept over there at
the neighbor's, — the old house seemed so lone-
some ! "

''Certainly; I can understand that. But — what
are you going to do ? What are your prospects ? "

" I have n't any," said Jacob.

" What did the — excuse me if I come too ab-
ruptly to the sordid business question," said Al-
phonsc, — " what did the old lady do with her
property ? "

" She had n't much, anyway."

" Was n't the cottage hers ? "

" Oh no ; she rented it of Mr. Jordan, and paid
twenty dollars a year for it. All the money she
had saved went to pay the funeral expenses. After
she was taken sick, I had to leave the place where
I was at work, to take care of her ; so I was n't
earning anything."

" Then there were the medicines and doctors'
bills," suggested Alphonse.

" She was her own doctor, and took her own
medicines, till the very last," replied Jacob. " She
would n't have had a doctor at all, if it had n't been
for the neighbors."

" But — to return to the question of property —
she must have left something," Alphonse insisted.

"A little. There's the cow, and the pig, and
the things in the house," said Jacob. " She gave
everything to me. She was very kind to me to-
ward the last."

"Made you her heir!" exclaimed Alphonse.
" Let 's go and see what you 've got ; have you
any objection ? "

Jacob was glad to have a friend to talk with.
He took the professor over the house and ground,
and showed him everything but the cow, which was
in the pasture.

" Now," said the professor, as they came round
to the wood-shed and sat down on a step, " here
you are in possession of a certain amount of per-
sonal property, and you want to know the best
thing to do with it."

" Exactly," said Jacob.

" With all due respect to your late lamented
relative," Alphonse continued, taking a knife from
his pocket and picking up a stick, "her household
stuff don't amount to much. Throw in the cow
and the pig and the chickens, and it is n't a brilliant
fortune, Jacob. Still, here 's a problem to be con-
sidered. Have n't you a jack-knife ? Well, find a
stick and go to whittling, as I do."

" What for ? " inquired Jacob, as he obeyed.

" Don't you see ? " replied the airy Alphonse.
" Nothing helps a man to think like a piece of pine

and a knife. Now my thoughts begin to corr;
he added, throwing off long, curled shavings fie
his stick. " I perceive three ways open to youj
making the most of your inheritance." He pans
in his whittling and put up three fingers. " J
first is for you to get married, bring a little i<
right in here to fill your aunt's place, and gow
with the housekeeping on the same humble u
inexpensive scale."

" Get married ! " laughed Jacob. " Why, n
only fifteen ! "

" I hardly thought you would consider that
tion practicable," said Alphonse. " We '11 disiis
it for the present," and he closed one of the fings
" The next thing is for you to underlet the cott;t
with your furniture, to some poor but worthy faift;
that will take you to board at a low figure."

" I don't know of any such family," said Jacn,

" Then we will dismiss that notion for hi
present," and Alphonse closed another fin*
" There 's only one way left." He held up theis
finger and touched it with the end of his spt
"Sell out."

" I 've thought of that ; but how ? " said JacI

"An auction. Don't you know how the t a;
is done ? I '11 write the posters for you. ' Aucbi
sale of personal property at the late residenc oi
Mrs. Myra Hapgood, deceased. One cow, im
pig, two feather beds, one gridiron, three \\m
tubs, one arm-chair with rockers and a sti^c
back, two floor-rugs made by her own hands, m
pine tables, crockery, flat-irons, one broom Jul
little worn, and so forth, and so forth. To beolii
unconditionally to the highest bidders. Profsci
Alphonse Pinkey, auctioneer.' How's that mi
boy ? "

"It sounds well," said Jacob, laughing. ' irt
you an auctioneer ? "

" I am anything and everything. You ave
known me as a dancing-master. I am also a mac-
master, writing-master, fencing-master, and aior-
trait-painter. I have been a flatboat-man, a erk
in a grocery, and a stage-driver. I never sold iflds
at auction ; but I do not hesitate to say that w:
sell goods at auction, if I try."

Jacob did not know that this lively talk viild
lead to any practical results, but it made lira
happy.

" Now tell me about yourself," said Alphise.
" By the way, what 's the matter with your ar
I 've noticed that scar."

" That's where the old sow bit me," said J sob

" Is n't that a rather remarkable place for afoil
sow to bite ?" inquired the professor. " Ho di
it happen ? "

" You see," said Jacob, " I was puny when wa
a little feller, and my aunt had her own notkso

I76.]

HIS OWN MASTER

octoring me. She used to think there was varteii)
■1 the ground to cure all diseases ; you could get it
! ut of herbs by steeping them, or you could get
out of the ground itself. So she used to bury
le in the warm earth of the garden, all but my
ead, and leave me there sometimes for half a clay
t a time. It kept me out of mischief, for one
iing ; I could n't stir hand or foot after she left
le. One day, after she had buried me, she went
) the neighbor's for something, and a peddler
ime, and was scared when I hollered to him out
f the ground, and went out and left the gate open.
ir hen an old sow with a litter of nine pigs walked
Si. She went rooting around, and finally came up
■■ranting to me, with her mouth open, and all her
Utle pigs squealing at her heels. I screamed,
hat only excited her. She came close up to me,
torting and showing her tusks, and I believe was
; :tually going to eat me, when Aunt Myry came
; ishing into the gate with a club. She had actually
"sgun at my ear."

■ " Lucky she did n't begin at your nose ! " said
Iphonse. " If I were in your place, I should wear

-iy hair long, to cover that scar."
" I shall, now I 'm my own master. Site always
:pt my hair cut short ; I don't know why, unless
was because it took less time to comb it. She
ever buried me up in the ground after that. I
^member how frightened I was ; I can see the old
>w's tusks to this day. Her mouth looked as large
5 a fire-place, and the eye that was turned toward
fie was as big as a tea-cup."

P "Have you any other relatives ?" Alphonse in-
quired.

c' " No very near ones ; only an uncle. But he
nd my aunt did n't agree very well, and I don't
link she ever heard much of him of late years."
" Where does he live ? "

" He 's some kind of a merchant in Cincinnati.''
" Cincinnati ! " echoed Alphonse, interested.

■ What 's his name ? "

' " Higglestone," said Jacob.

II "You don't say ! " cried Alphonse. rising to his
:et and standing before Jacob, poising knife and
ick. " Your aunt has n't done much for you, but
' 3u 've a fortune in your uncle."
- Jacob wondered how that could be.

" Don't you see? " said Alphonse, whittling fast
ijain. " Higglestone & West are dealers in hard-
ware in the lower town ; one of the richest firms

the city ; and your uncle is well known as a
. lblic-spirited, liberal sort of man."

"Aunt Myry used to call him close-fisted and

outy."

" Your aunt was prejudiced. Uncle Higglestone

the mine you are to work, my boy." The profes-

t's fancies flew like his shavings. He rattled away.

" Here 's the programme for you. Auction sale
— convert everything into cash. Then — Ho for
Cincinnati ! I 'm on my way there now, and 1 '11
take you along with me and introduce you to your
uncle. You never had any quarrel with him, did
you ? "

" I never even saw him."

"So much the better. He'll be astonished to
find he has such a fine, promising young fellow for
a nephew. I see the excellent old gentleman be-
fore me now. 1 say, ' Your long-lost nephew, sir ! '
He exclaims, ' Is it possible — my poor sister's orphan
child ! ' He welcomes you with open arms. He
sheds tears at the recollection of your mother, but
turns to you with smiles of pride and affection. A
career is open to you at once. Don't you see ? " —
and the professor laughed as he whittled.

" I believe I will write to him," said Jacob,
pleased with the picture drawn from his friend's
vivid imagination.

" Why write? If you wait for an answer, you
will be too late to make the journey with me. Bet-
ter take the old gentleman by surprise."

" But suppose it should n't be so pleasant a sur-
prise to him," suggested the modest Jacob.

" That is n't a supposable case. But, even if he
should not welcome you, what of that ? You are
in Cincinnati. It is a great city — a great business
center. I have hosts of friends there. We shall
easily find something for you to do, which will be
far better than trying to get a living in this miser-
able little country town."

"When are you going?" Jacob asked, with
kindling looks.

" I was going right on to-morrow. But I know
your uncle will thank me if I wait to help you settle
up your affairs and take you with me. Let 's see —
to-day is Wednesday. We '11 have the auction on
Saturday. Take the stage on Monday. Steam-
boat Tuesday — ' floating down the river on the
O-hi-o ! ' " sang Alphonse. " Cincinnati — when we
get there. A delightful trip this season of the year.
There you are ! "

So saying, he threw away his stick and shut his
pocket-knife, as if the matter were settled.

" I '11 think of it to-night," began Jacob.

"Think of it ? Why, we liave thought of it.
There 's nothing more to be said. We might whit-
tle and talk for a month of Sundays, and nothing
better would come of it. My valise and violin are
at the hotel. Let me see."

Alphonse hesitated, and seemed about to resort
to his knife and stick again.

" You '11 be there to-night ?" said Jacob.

" I was thinking. You would n't object to sleep-
ing in the old house if I should come over and stay
with you? Of course not," the professor went on.

HIS OWN MASTER.

^December'!

" We shall want to be together for consultation.
So I '11 have my traps sent over. What have you
got for supper ? "

" Plenty of milk, and johnny-cake of my own
making, and I can bake a few potatoes ; it '11 do for
me, but it 's nothing to invite you to."

" Nothing could suit me better, my dear Jacob !
I 'm vastly fond of johnny-cake and milk — so sim-
ple, so novel ! And baked potatoes — how charm-
ing ! Go and help me bring over my traps, and
we are all right."

Alphonse gayly whirled about on one foot, and
snapped his thumb and finger in the air.

Jacob could not help feeling some vague mis-
givings as to the lively professor and his pro-
gramme. He got up, brushed the dust from his
clothes, and wished to give the matter a little con-
sideration. Whittle as he would, he could not,
think so fast as Alphonse.

" Perhaps you would n't like to have me come
and stop with you," said Pinkey.

" Oh, that is n't it, — yes, I would, — but it 's so
sudden ! " replied Jacob.

He was indeed delighted, after his lonely hours
and small comfort from old acquaintances, to have
a companion whose condescension was so flattering
and whose talk so cheering. And he felt that he
ought to do all he could for one who proposed to
do so much for him.

" Everything happens sudden with me — that 's
the sort of fellow I am," cried Alphonse, patting
him on the shoulder. " Come along ! "

And they started for the tavern.

Chapter III.

CARRYING OUT THE PROGRAMME.

Professor Pinkey did not care to have Jacob
hear his talk with the landlord, so he told him to
stop at the porch while he went into the bar-room.
The truth is, the professor's credit was not good at
the inn, and he had been requested, when he ap-
plied for a room there that afternoon, to pay some-
thing in advance.

" Oh, certainly ! " he had said. " A rather sin-
gular request to make of a gentleman, but it 's the
same thing to me. I 'm going out now to collect
some outstanding bills due from two or three of my
last winter's pupils. I'll leave my traps here till I
come back ; then I '11 pay what you wish."

As he had not succeeded in collecting any money,
perhaps it would not have been convenient for him
to advance any to the landlord. But he was not
the man to say just that.

" Sorry I sha' n't have the pleasure of stopping
with you, my good friend," he cried, familiarly, on

his return, striking the landlord on the back
" Fact is, I 've received such pressing invitation;
to visit the families of some of my pupils — I 've hac;
to accept one or two of them — and I 've come foi
my traps."

" Very well," said the landlord, passing out |
light valise and a violin-case from behind th<
counter. He held on to them, however, as h<;
added with a grim smile, "I don't care for you)
present or future custom ; but I should like, befox
we part, professor, to have you pay me a small sun
due for your board here last winter."

" Certainly. I '11 call before I leave town an<)]
make it all right. When my pupils don't pay mcj
I am sometimes obliged to ask for favors. How i
your lovely daughter? She was one of my mosj
interesting and promising pupils; if I could alway
have such young ladies to teach, and men of hone
like you to deal with, my profession would bl
delightful."

With which little stroke of flattery, and an ex:
quisite bow and smile, the dancing-master withdrev
his "traps" from the landlord's yielding hands, ant
walked gayly out of the tavern. On the porch, h.
gave the valise to Jacob, and carrying the violi!
himself, triumphantly retreated; the landlord gazin
after him with a puzzled and rather rueful look.

'■'Do you believe he'll ever pay?" asked th
bar-tender.

'■I don't know," muttered the landlord. "
meant to hold on to his traps ; but somehow he go
them out of my hands 'fore I knew it. He 's cet
tainly one of the politest men I ever saw ; you can'
resist him !"

The dancing-master made things lively for Jacoi
that evening. After supper he wrote, in a bold an
ornate hand, notices of the auction, to be posted ;,
the post-office and store and on the town pump tb
next day. Then he got a lath and the fire-poki
and insisted on giving Jacob a lesson in fencinj
Then he played tunes on his violin, and dance<
and sang, and shouted, until the old house shoe
and rang, and it seemed to Jacob that his auiu
might at any moment appear, and with a terribl
look demand, "What's all this noise?"

She never would have allowed any such carryin
on there while she lived ; and it would have troubh
him, even if the shadow of death had not still hur,
over the house and damped his merriment. C
course Alphonse had no such feeling as to the o
lady and the recent funeral, and Jacob excuse!
him.

The next day Pinkey put up the written notice
and also took the precaution to go about and tap
of Jacob's plans and prospects with the neighbour'
He relied, not without reason, upon his own gl
tongue to smooth away any objections on the pj

I 7 6. 1

HIS OWN MASTER.

sdljif the boy's friends or the town authorities, and to
tij jiterest people in the auction sale.
k ) Saturday afternoon arrived, and with it a goodly
[((jrowd of men, women, girls and boys. A few came

ut of good-will to Jacob, but more to gratify their
il 1 uriosity and to see the fun.
ij Everything was in readiness. Professor Pinkey
■ad provided himself with a hammer, which he

track upon the head of an overturned barrel in the

itchen, to call the company to order, after some
ar iime had been spent in looking about the premises;

nd opened the sale with the following eloquent
a ,»:ddress :

mil "Ladies and gentlemen, it is with feelings of
11 irofound emotion that I step up to wield the ham-
ix f.rer upon this peculiar, I may say this affecting
uLccasion. Who can contemplate the home of an
il J ged widow, the humble board where she has par-
l |aken of her solitary meals, the flat-iron she has used

smooth the ruffles of her faultless cap, the pillow
t /here she has suffered, the bedside where she has
ktpirayed, without the tribute of a tear?"
11 h Here Alphonse actually shook out his handker-
, jhief, and used it. Strange to say, there was a
(J, glistening moisture in his eyes, and a tremor in his
r i] oice. Jacob felt his own eyes fill; and he could

lot help wondering if he were really listening to the
^;ame man who had so lately made the old house

hake with reckless merriment.
•| "This is the scene," Alphonse went on, " of her
.ife-long, silent sorrow, her pious hopes, her anx-
ious cares. In this rocking-chair she has sat and
;)Cnit, and lived over the past, and" (he gave an
irdent upward glance which would have become a
[divinity student) "contemplated a heavenly future.

n that kettle, she steeped the herbs and brewed the

lrink that alleviated pain. In yonder skillet, she

urned her frugal flapjacks for more than twenty

; , years. It is good for at least twenty years more.

. r Everything shows evidence of the most careful

Jwisage. Those blue-rimmed cups and saucers, out

!|(,)f which she imbibed the solace of the aged and

j.iifflicted during all the years of her widowhood, are

Jjis good as new. Purchasers can bid with perfect

:onfidence, knowing that in every sale they will get

■ :heir money's worth. For, ladies and gentlemen,

1 sacred as these relics are, they must be sold. We

ilLhave a duty not only to the dead, but to the living."
|l Here all eyes, following the auctioneer's, turned
1, iipon the blushing Jacob.

. " The widow prized her home and her household
goods," said Pinkey ; "but there was one thing she
1 prized still more. That was her nephew. He was
the idol of her heart. She showed her tenderness
for him, and her appreciation of his worth, by giv-
ing him everything, in the presence of witnesses,
before she died. She said to him then, almost with

her parting breath, ' Sell ! ' If she could rise from
the tomb and put in an appearance now, she would
murmur "Sell!' Ladies and gentlemen, we shall
proceed to sell accordingly. 1 hope you will
all do your duty to the widow and orphan, as I am
trying, in a humble way, to do mine. I have post-
poned a journey of great importance, and am now
giving my time and services without remuneration
(I should scorn to touch a cent of the orphan's
money !) in order to settle up his affairs and give
him a start in life. The terms of this sale, ladies
and gentlemen, will be cash and immediate delivery.
We shall now proceed."

Chapter IV.

THE AUCTION SALE.

At the close of his speech, Alphonse wiped his
forehead, thumped the barrel- head, and ordered
Jacob to hold up the rocking-chair.

"We shall begin, ladies and gentlemen," said
he, " with the old lady's easy-chair — her arm-chair.
■ I love it ! I love it ! And who shall dare to chide
me for loving that old arm-chair ? ' What am I
offered? Remember all the sacred associations
connected with a chair like that, and give me a bid,
somebody."

"Twenty-five cents," squeaked out an old lady,
turning the chair around, as Jacob held it up, and
scrutinizing it through her glasses.

"Twenty-five cents I am offered. Twenty-five
cents for a chair well worth two dollars. Ladies
and gentlemen, look at it ! Why, the cushion
alone is worth more than the price bid for the
whole. Twenty-five, twenty-five. Don't let me
insult the memory of the dead by knocking down
her fine old arm-chair at that ridiculously low
figure. Going at twenty-five ! Who will give me
fifty?"

" I '11 give thirty," said a young woman with a
baby in her arms.

" Thirty I am offered. Thirty thirty thirty — "

" Thirty-five ! " cried the first bidder.

"Thirty-five! You will give more than that, I
know," said Alphonse to the younger woman, with
a persuasive smile. " What a chair that will be to
rock your baby in ! Forty I am offered. Fifty !
Fiftyfiftyfiftyfiftyfiftyfifty ! Halfadollarhalfadollar
halfadollar ! Going at half — a — dollar. Shall I
have any more ? Half a dollar — one ! " Pinkey
swung his hammer. "Going — at halfadollar;"
he glanced his eye about the company, and crooked
his forefinger into an interrogation point at the pre-
vious bidders. "'Give me fifty-five?"

Somebody nodded.

"Fifty-five I am offered; fiftyfivefiftyfivefifty-
five ! — going at fifty-five ! Sixty ! Sixtysixtysixty-

HIS OWN MASTER.

[December,, t

sixty sixty ! " — it is impossible to imitate the rapidity
with which Pinkey repeated these words — "going
at sixty cents ! Will the benevolent-looking lady
there in the checkered shawl say seventy ? Thank
you, madam. Seventyseventyseventy — going at
seventy cents — one ! Going — going — going at
seventy cents — two! Shall I have any more?
Going — going — and gone, at seventy cents, to
the benevolent-looking old lady in the checkered
shawl ! " And Alphonse thumped the barrel head.

want the best-known and most influential citizen Ij
can find to do this for him, and give character to the!
proceedings ; and you, Mr. Jaffers, are that man."/

And so it happened that the deacon, instead of
preventing the auction, was present with his note-1
book, and took the money.

Alphonse now went rapidly through the house, i
selling everything he could get a bid for, and finally il
putting up in one lot everything that had been left
over. This lot consisted of an old dye-tub, an

THE Al'CTION SALE.

The old lady smilingly took out her pocket-
book, and offered to pay Pinkey on the spot. He
gracefully waved her off.

" I have absolutely declined to touch in any way
a cent of the money proceeding from this sale. Mr.
Jaffers — well-known to the community as Deacon
Jaffers — has kindly consented to receive money for
our young friend, and see to the delivery of the
articles. Am I right, Mr. Jaffers?"

The deacon nodded assent. That worthy man
had been seriously inclined to oppose the scheme
of the auction, on moral and legal grounds, until
Alphonse had won his confidence by asking him
to act as treasurer at the sale. "For Jacob's sake,"
Pinkey had said to him in his charming way; " I

empty molasses-jug, a vinegar-cask (half full of
"mother"), a rag-bag, some bundles of dried
herbs, some medicine-bottles, a wood-box, chairs'
with broken legs, baskets without handles, and other
odds and ends. This extraordinary heap excited'
a good deal of merriment, which Aphonse took
advantage of to run up the bids; and was finally,
knocked down for a dollar and ninety cents.

"We will now proceed to the most important
sale of all — that of the widow's cow," said Alphonse;
and as he led the way to the shed, he was pleased :
to see a broad-faced man waiting there, under a,
broad-brimmed hat. Jacob had told him that hej
thought Friend David would be on hand to bid fori
the cow.

3 7 6.]

HIS O \V N M ASTER.

»9

Fortunately, others who knew the value of the
■ nimal were there too ; and the bids rose at once
.) twenty dollars.

"Twenty dollars!" said Alphonse, mounted

:pon a milking-stool and flourishing his hammer.

Only twenty dollars for a cow like that ! Milk

Jch as cream, twenty-one quarts a day — not quite

dollar a quart ! Who will give me twenty-one ! "

He looked at Friend David, who had not yet

ffered to bid. Friend David winked.

"Twenty-one I am offered ! Twentyonetwenty-

netwentyonetwentyone— going at "

] "Twenty-two," said Deacon Jaffers.
, "Only twenty-two!" exclaimed Alphonse.
: Why, gentlemen, you are not going to stand by
jnd see a valuable cow sacrificed. I am sure ! Gen-
|e as a lamb — never known to kick or hold up the
b iilk. What is it, Jacob ? "
"I wanted to tell you," said Jacob, who had been
ying for a minute or two to get in a word, " that
ou are mistaken about the amount of milk she
ives. She has given twenty-one quarts; but that
as earlier in the season. Now she only gives
ine."

Alphonse was not a man to be abashed by the
iterruption. -

"Thank you!" he cried; "I am happy to be
nrrected. This sale is 'pon honor, and I desire to
.it all my statements by the exact pattern of the
icts. But I am sure, gentlemen, you will not let
te boy suffer for his honesty. I understood him
|/> say twenty-one quarts ; and it appears that it

1'yas twenty-one quarts all through the early part
f the season. It would be an unheard-of cow
tat could give twenty-one quarts of rich milk the
jear round. And I am offered only twenty-two
pilars. Twentytwotwentytwotwentytwo ! Shall I
lave twenty-three ? "
I Friend David winked again.

! " Twenty- three ! Going now at "

"Twenty-four," said Deacon Jaffers.
"Twentyfourtwentyfourtwentyfour ! Give me
lother dollar ?" cried Alphonse, leaning over affec-
onately at Friend David. "Give me a half?"
Another wink from the Quaker.
: " Half I am offered ! Twentyfournaftwentyfour-
aftwentyfournaf ! — twenty-four dollars and fifty
ints. Did I understand you to bid twenty-five,
lr. Jaffers?"

The deacon had not bid twenty-five ; but he
, 3dded.

" Going now at twenty-five dollars — and a half ! "

: Ided Alphonse. Jacob looked on with breathless

terest. " Twenty-six ? " — the auctioneer crooked

j'e finger at Jaffers. " Twentysixtwentysixtwenty-

(Xtwentysix— and a half I am offered. Twenty-

icnaftwentysixnaftwentysixnaf ! Will somebody

say seven ? Going at twenty-six dollars and a
half — one ! Am I to have any more ? Your
last chance, gentlemen ! Two ! Going — going —
and gone, at twenty-six dollars and a half, to our
worthy friend here in the broad-brimmed hat ! " —
and Alphonse struck a beam with his hammer.

Friend David smiled with satisfaction. But he
was n't half so tickled as Jacob was, who thought it
a capital joke that the Quaker had come to the sale
and there paid more than the first price asked for
the cow.

" Seems I was n't so very grasping, after all ! "
he said to himself.

The pig and chickens were next sold. Then the
garden crops, consisting chiefly of a few rows of
corn and potatoes.

Then the auctioneer put up his hammer, and the
sale was closed. It had been a brilliant success,
and as people went away, many carrying their
purchases with them, they might have been heard
praising Professor Pinkey.

" What a beautiful man ! " said the old ladies.

" Smart, I tell ye ! " said the men.

" Aint he nice, though !" was the comment of
the admiring girls.

Jacob was almost forgotten ; and he was quite
contented to be overlooked. Alphonse had inspired
in him unbounded confidence and gratitude, and
he gloried in his friend's popularity. He had also
other cause for satisfaction.

When all was over, Deacon Jaffers reckoned up
the proceeds of the sale, which amounted to the
handsome sum of eighty-seven dollars.

"Better keep it for ye, hadn't I?" said the
good man, thinking there was danger of Jacob's
losing it.

" A very kind and sensible suggestion," Alphonse
answered for the lad. "I am sure, Jacob, your
money cannot be in better hands. However. I
suppose, if you go to find your uncle in Cincinnati,
it will be as well for you to take it with you ; indeed,
you '11 want some of it for the journey. If you go
with me, I '11 take care that you don't lose it. I
always, when traveling," said the professor, turning
to Jaffers, " carry large sums " — he spoke as if large
sums were very common with him — "in a belt
about my person ; and I shall advise him to do the
same."

" A good idee," said the deacon. " Have a belt.
Jacob, as the professor says ; and put all the money
into it you don't want to use for your daily ex-
penses. Have ye re'ly made up your mind to go
and find your uncle ? "

Jacob had concluded that it was the best thing
he could do.

'• Wal. wal ; I Ye talked with the professor, and
I don't know but 't is. I suppose, then. I 'd better

90 . A CHRISTMAS SONG. [December

give ye the money, — though it seems a good deal it seemed to him a smail fortune. And it addec

for a boy like you to have. I only hope you'll not a little to his triumphs to know that Joe Bern

make a wise use on 't." and the other boys with whom he had lately quar

And Jaffers put the money into Jacob's hands. reled were standing by, regarding him with admira

Wonder and pleasure sparkled in the boy's eyes ; tion and envy.

(To be continued.)

A CHRISTMAS SONG.

By Mrs. Hattie S. Russell.

The oak is a strong and stalwart tree,

And it lifts its branches up,
And catches the dew right gallantly

In many a dainty cup.
And the world is brighter, and better made.

Because of the woodman's stroke,
Descending in sun, or falling in shade,

On the sturdy form of the oak.
But stronger, I ween, in apparel green,

And trappings so fair to see;
With its precious freight, for small and great,

Is the beautiful Christmas-tree.

The elm is a kind and goodly tree,

With its branches bending low;
The heart is glad when its form we see,

As we list to the river's flow.
Ay ! the heart is glad, and the pulses bound,

And joy illumines the face,
Whenever a goodly elm is found,

Because of its beauty and grace.
But kinder, I ween, more goodly in mien,

With branches more drooping and free,
The tints of whose leaves, fidelity weaves,

Is the beautiful Christmas-tree.

The maple is supple, and lithe, and strong,

And claimeth our love anew,
When the days are listless, and quiet, and long,

And the world is fair to view.
And later, — as beauties and graces unfold, —

A monarch right regally drest.
With streamers aflame, and pennons of gold,

It seemeth of all the best.
More lissome, I ween, the brightness and sheen,

And the coloring, sunny and free,
And the banners soft, that are held aloft,

Bv the beautiful Christmas-tree.

6 7 6.]

THE HORSE HOTEL.

By Charles Barnard.

The Guests.
The guests at this hotel are horses ; red horses
.nd white ; fiery racers from the prairies of Illinois,
.nd solemn dobbins from quiet farms in West Vir-
ginia. They come in squads of twenty and thirty,
.11 the way from Wisconsin, Indiana, Ohio, and

sort of thing, or they find the stairs uncomfortable,
and ask if the elevator is running, and otherwise
exhibit a lofty spirit unbecoming in sensible horses.
Or, worse still, perhaps they are quarrelsome and
bite and kick their neighbors, or display other vari-
eties of ill manners. Certainly, such silly creatures

THE ARRIVALS.

Pennsylvania, in the cars to New York. Then
hey go to a great stable on Second avenue, there
o wait till they recover from the effects of their
ide; and then they are invited to visit the great
lorse Hotel on Third avenue, to see if they are fit
:ompany for the honorable residents of this palace
or horses. Here are some of the guests just enter-
ng at the front door of the hotel and making the
icquaintance of the manager. Perhaps when they
irrive they do not take kindly to their private apart -
nents, or they object to the bill of fare, or they ex-
cess a dislike for the style of work they must do
here. Perhaps they wish a private table and that

are not entitled to a residence in the Horse Hotel,
and the housekeeper soon sends them away to
some poorer horse residence, where they never will
find half the luxuries and comforts of this popular
house.

The good horses — those sensible ones who know
what is good for a horse — stay in the hotel : and if
they could tell what they think about it, doubtless
there would be a mass meeting of the guests, with
a vote of thanks to the managers, or at least a com-
mittee of three to wait on the housekeeper and
chief cook, with an appropriate set of resolutions
expressive of appreciation of their "kindness and

THE HORSE HOTEL.

[Decembe :

attention," and full of words like "elegant apart-
ments," "choice viands," "politeness," "urbanity,"
etc., etc., etc.

The Hotel.

There are several large horse residences in New
York. They each have beds for hundreds of horses,'
and the dining-tables are a hundred times larger
than those of the " Fifth Avenue" and " Windsor"
put together. The Horse Hotel, the largest one
of all, is on Third avenue, between Sixty-fifth and
Sixty-sixth streets. It is one vast iron building, six

assistants. Altogether, the hotel is unsurpassed f|
horse-luxury and elegance.

The guests destined to patronize the Horl
Hotel come cantering up Third avenue in smaj
companies, and with their heads loosely tied tl
gether to keep them from running away (they ail
strangers in the city, and are apt to be frightenci
at the noise and confusion of the streets), and a ma
rides on one, and leads the rest to show them ill
way to the house. When they reach Sixty-fifl
street, they pause before a great iron building wit
eight doors, each as big as a barn-door, in tl

GOING UPSTAIRS TO BED.

hundred feet long and two hundred feet wide, and
covers an entire block. It is three stories high,
with a basement, and two thousand horses belong-
ing to the Third Avenue Railroad Company reside
there in a style of splendor and luxury quite un-
known to horses who have never traveled from
their native farms. There are waiting and recep-
tion rooms, nice quarters for horses who happen to
have a cold or a headache ; there is a fine hospital
for those who are very sick ; there is a house surgeon
and shoe-maker, to say nothing of a cobbler to put
on new heels or otherwise repair their shoes ; and
there is a housekeeper and a whole army of waiters
and chamber-maids ; also, a chief cook, with a dozen

front, and a fine portico in the middle. This is tl
Horse Hotel. One would think so, for there all
dozens of fat and hearty fellows standing about tl
door, just exactly as men stand about the " Fifll
Avenue" entrance, except that the horses do nfl
smoke or pick their teeth in public — of course no I
it is against the rules of the house. Then the ma:w
ager appears, and politely invites them in, and thtM I
march through one of the great doors and ent'li
the reception-room on the first floor. This roof
is a vast place, ten times as big as the largest mecf
ing-house you ever saw. There are tracks all o\T
the brick floor, and scores of horse-cars are comiil
in and going out all the time. There are horsS

e?6.j

THE HORSE HOTEL.

•verywhere, some just coming in, others going out,
ind some standing patiently waiting for their turn
o go to work. There is a great well, or open
space, in the middle of the room, and here the
juests can look up and down and see the whole
leight of the house. The place is cool and quiet,
ind the guests are glad to rest a moment from the
jlare and noise of the street. Presently the man-
ager calls some of the waiters, and each horse is
nvited to go down-stairs and see the barber and
ihoe-maker, and to have a wash-up
ifter the journey and get ready for
linner. Going up or down stairs is
lot particularly distressing. The

ajstairs are wide and easy, and of
j-ourse very properly carpeted with
i choice pattern of hay-seed tapes-
ry, thick and soft. In fact, the stairs
In this house are so easy and com-
fortable, that even a strange horse
ihat never walked up or down a pair

l, !>f stairs in his life, thinks it only a

I [superior kind of hill-side, very much

I a ike those on the old farm.

The Dressing-Rooms.
When the new guests reach the
ottom of the stairs, they find them-
selves in the queerest place imagin-
able. A vast room full of horses —
rows and rows of horses, as far as
pou can see. The new horses think
there must be horses to the right
of them, horses to the left of them,
ind horses before and behind.
■Twelve hundred horses, all in one
>!great room together. However, the
-new-comers have not much time to
look about, for the waiters invite
them to have their shoes taken off.
This done, their feet are washed and
-"Iressed, and their coats are cleaned
1 tnd brushed, and then they are
■ marched off to get a new pair of
'shoes. After this they are taken
through the long halls, and shown
. , o their rooms. A light lunch is all
'eady, and when the guest has eaten
;.t and taken a drink of water, he has a chance
:o look about and see what sort of company he
s in.

When one goes to a hotel, ona expects to receive
proper attention; so at the Horse Hotel there
"i ire plenty of servants, but the queer thing about it
s, that all the "maids" are men. Here is a picture
if one of the pretty chamber-maids, and you can-
lot fail to admire the charming stvle in which she

puts up her back hair and the dainty gaiters she
wears on her delicate feet. Every horse has a
chamber-maid to wait on him, to make up his
bed, to sweep out his room, and to set the table
and brush his coat, and attend to all the other little
horse-comforts. And excellent servants they are,
for the guests look as nice and clean as possible.
The coats are as glossy as silk, and every table has
clean plates three times a day. Besides this, every
horse can have a napkin if he asks for it politely.

THE CHAMBER-MAID.

The Chambers.
There are three sets of chambers in the Horse
Hotel. One lot of over twelve hundred in the
basement, and two more of over eight hundred in
the third story. Those upstairs are divided into
two sets. One is occupied by the horses that work
in the night, and as these fellows sleep in the day-
time, they have a separate place all by themselves,
where the others will not disturb them by tramping

THE HORSE HOTEL.

[Decemi t

about in the corridors. The stalls or chambers are winter, he has the best of care and all the luxm

placed side by side in long rows the whole length any reasonable horse can expect. The new-con r

of the great halls, and each horse stands facing may also amuse himself in looking about at

another in the next row. The sides of each stall horses that are coming and going all the time,

PREPARING DINNP:R.

are low, and the new-comer has a good chance to
see what is going on. There is a broad aisle be-
tween every double row of stalls, and plenty of
room for the horses to find their way about, or up
and down the broad sloping stair-ways. Every set
of stalls is numbered, and they do say that an old
resident, if let loose in the hotel, could find his way
to his own room without once asking the attendants
to show him the way. Besides, all the horses be-
longing to one car are together, and they soon learn
to know each other, and particularly the other
horse in the same span. If the horse has a room
in the basement, his stall is one of a short row run-
ning across the building. If he is upstairs, the
rows run the other way; but in either case, there is
plenty of light, and the air is sweet and comfortable,
and free from bad draughts from the open windows.
In the winter, every horse has a good blanket; but
in summer, he does not need it ; and in summer or

he may look out the window over the houseto
or make friends with the sparrows. These fat a
lively birds are everywhere, upstairs and dov>|
They sit on the tops of the stalls, and fly up a
down stairs, and visit all the rooms just as tr
please. They even help themselves to the horsi
dinner, without once asking leave, and fill ti
whole hotel with the sound of their twittering, at
no doubt the horses find a good deal of fun i
watching them.

Breakfast, Dinner and Tea.

The first week the country horse spends in
hotel, he tries the bill of fare to see if it agrees wl
him. It is a bountiful table, and the corn-steal 1 )
the oat-puddings, and hay-dessert, are prime,
sides this, there are tip-top gravies of salt
water, and harmless coffee of pure Croton. Twen I
seven pounds of oats, hay, and corn, ground

1876.1

THE HORSE HOTEL.

mixed, for every horse every day, and equally
divided into three meals. The new guest thinks
the fare excellent, and is mightily pleased with his
good fortune, and eats it all up every time with a
good relish. Of course he must go out for exercise
every day, and for the first month he makes one
trip with the cars to the Post-Office and back each
day. After that, when he is well accustomed to
the luxurious fare at his hotel, he makes two trips
a day, and that makes his day's work, — all that is
expected of him. If we visited the Horse Hotel at
supper-time, we would see men dragging great
hand-carts through the aisles between the rows of
stalls, and giving each horse in turn his share, just
as in this picture.

Everywhere the utmost neatness and care, every-
where the utmost attention, so that every member of
the four-footed company be made perfectly comfort-
able. In one place horses are coming in from their
work, warm and perspiring, and the waiters rub
them down, and lead them to their places, but give

Everywhere hither and thither fly the sparrows,
up and down stairs and over the horses' heads, and
following the supper-carts about, to pick up a grain
or two, as if they were the guests and the great
house had been erected for their especial accom-
modation.

The Kitchen.

Down-stairs, in a place safe from fire, is the
kitchen, where the dinners for the two thousand
guests are prepared. In one room is a steam-
engine turning swiftly all day, that the mills may
grind the tons of corn and oats that are needed.
In another room are great wooden tubs, where the
corn and oats and cut hay are mixed together.
The tubs are as clean as good boards and plenty
of scrubbing can make them, and the horse-cooks
scatter salt in them, and then pour in the good
things and stir them all together till a great pud-
ding is made, and then the waiters come with their
trays-on-wheels and take it away to the hungry
company up and down stairs. The picture on the

n them nothing to drink till they are cooled off and
t|/.are perfectly rested and at ease ; then they in turn
ihave their supper. Other horses that have had an
31 early supper are going out for a trip down town

and they look fat and hearty, as if on the whole
they found the hotel comfortable and life reason-
ably agreeable.

opposite page shows how the cooks prepare the
second course that follows the soup, and the one
on this page represents the waiters attending the
table. Every day the cooks must prepare break-
fast, dinner and supper for two thousand horses,
and a great mountain of food it makes — more hay
and oats than two horses could drag in a hay-cart,

THE HORSE HOTEL.

[Decemlr,

and more than enough to keep all the horses in
some country villages for a whole year.

The Hospital.

Horses, like men, sometimes have their ill turns
and fits of sickness ; and the curious part of this is,
that they take cold, and have sore throats and the
rheumatism, and everything else that men are
liable to have if they do not take care of themselves.
So there is a doctor constantly on hand to look
after the company, and to give fhem their pills and
powders. The first sign that a car-horse exhibits
of sickness is a slight lameness when at work. Do
you think they whip him up and make him go

gone, the doctor's man dresses the patient's feet ajl
wipes them dry, and the horse feels a hundred tirn
better, and thinks he could try that long trail
down town again without misgivings. The shl-
maker puts on new shoes, and the convalesces
goes to his own room for a good supper anc*
night's rest, and tomorrow he will be all riife
again.

Another horse may decline his dinner, or refip
to rise early in the morning, or come home It
night and droop his head and leave his supji
untouched, and then the chamber-maids say if
poor thing is really sick, and that the doctor mit
be called. The doctor comes and examines le

GIVING MEDICINE TO A REFRACTORY HORSE.

faster? No ; they take him right to the hotel, and
call the doctor. The medical man looks wise, feels
of the poor fellow's feet, and says he is feverish and
must have a warm bath. So the doctor's assistant
takes off the patient's shoes, and leads him to the
hospital for lame horses. This is a cool and shady
room in the basement, and filled with comfortable
stalls, and each having a big tub of warm water.
Here the lame horse with fever in his feet has a
foot-bath of warm water and hay-seed. He has
tramped many a weary mile over the stones of
Third avenue, and the bath is grateful and comfort-
ing, and he holds his feet in it with resignation
and patience, as if he felt sure that the wise doctor
knew what was best. Then, after the fever has

patient, and in a few moments he knows what
the trouble, and the horse is led away down-st:s
and out into the yard to another part of the hoi^
to the hospital for sick horses. Here he ha^i
double bed given him, and the doctor write^
prescription and gives it to the nurse, and |
medicine is prepared in a little apothecary sn |
attached to the hospital. Now. horses do not 1
medicines, and big doses are their particular' c
like ; so the wise doctor is a homeopathist, a
administers his medicines in pills and powders tl
do not taste badly at all, and the horse takes th
without knowing it. Sometimes a sick horse, 1
a sick boy, gets nervous and behaves in ways t
are not nice, and then the nurse has to hold

i8 7 6.]

THE HORSE HOTEL.

head while the doctor gives him his medicine in a/
syringe. In this quiet and comfortable hospital,
far away from all the noise of the street and the
excitement of the hotel life, the sick horses soon
recover, and then they go back to their work again ;
or if they are old and nearly worn out, they are
placed in stalls by themselves, and offered for sale
to any one who cares to buy them. They are not
wholly worn out, and on a farm and at light work,

give one a better idea of the horse's brains, and
show that he is often almost human in his feelings
and instincts. Nearly all of the two thousand
horses gathered here display a docile and amiable
spirit, and actually seem interested in their work.
They take the greatest interest in all that is going
on in the hotel, and when it comes to real down-
right work in the traces, they certainly act as if they
had consciences, as if they were proud and willing

FOOT-HATH.

,und with an occasional taste of green grass, they

"1 .night live for years; so the farmers buy these old

locses, and take them away to the country to spend

;he rest of their days in peace, far from noisy Third

ivenue and the wearisome jangle of the car-bells.

Some boys and girls fancy a horse a stupid

Tareature, without an idea above oats. A walk

e 'J :hrough this vast building, with its hundreds of

H Liorses in rows beyond rows, with its great variety

11 ')f animals from every part of the Union, will soon

Vol. IV.— 7.

to work, and wished to show that they appreciated
the attention and kindness that were bestowed upon
them. They sometimes quarrel among themselves,
and display a curious jealousy of new-comers ; but
they rarely attempt to kick the waiters or bite the
chamber-maids. Of course, they have to work,
and to work hard; but they find in their great
Horse Hotel every comfort in sickness or health,
plenty to eat and drink, and the sparrows for com-
panv.

THE FLOCK OF DOVES.

[Decembi|

THE FLOCK OF DOVES.
By Celia Thaxter.

The world was like a wilderness

Of soft and downy snow ;
The trees were plumed with feathery flakes,

And the ground was white below.

Came the little mother out to the gate
To watch for her children three ;

Her hood was red as a poppy-flower,
And rosy and young was she.

And then she hid by the pine-tree tall,
For the children's tones rang sweet,

As home from school, through the drifts so ligl
They sped with merry feet.

" Oh, Nannie, Nannie ! See the fence

Alive with doves so white ! "
" Oh, hush! don't frighten them away!"

They whisper with delight.

THE SNOW DOVES

She took the snow in her cunning hands,

As waiting she stood alone,
And lo ! in a moment, beneath her touch,

A fair white dove had grown.

A flock she wrought, and on the fence

Set them in bright array,
With folded wings, or pinions spread,

Ready to fly away.

They crept so soft, they crept so still,

The wondrous sight to see !
The little mother pushed the gate,

And laughed out joyfully.

She clasped them close, she kissed their cheek

And lips so sweet and red.
The birds are only made of snow I

You are my doves," she said.

i8 7 6.J

THE BOYS OF MY BOYHOOD.

By William Cullen Bryant.

The conductor of St. NICHOLAS has asked me
for a talk with the boys who read this magazine.
If she had not at the same time suggested a sub-
ject, I am pretty sure that I should not have com-
plied with the request ; but when she mentioned
" The Boys of My Boyhood," there was something
in the words which carried my mind back to the
early years of my life, and made me think that I
might be able to hold the attention of the readers
of the St. NICHOLAS for a little while in discours-
ing of those who began life with me.

The boys of the generation to which I belonged
— that is to say, who were born in the last years
of the last century or the earliest of this — were
brought up under a system of discipline which put
a far greater distance between parents and their
children than now exists. The parents seemed to
think this necessary in order to secure obedience.
They were believers in the old maxim that famil-
iarity breeds contempt. My own parents lived in
the house with my grandfather and grandmother
on the mother's side. My grandfather was a dis-
ciplinarian of the stricter sort, and I can hardly
find words to express the awe in which I stood of
him — an awe so great as almost to prevent anything
like affection on my part, although he was in the
main kind, and, certainly, never thought of being
severe beyond what was necessary to maintain a
proper degree of order in the family.

The other boys in that part of the country, my
school-mates and play-fellows, were educated on
the same system. Yet there were at that time
some indications that this very severe discipline
was beginning to relax. With my father and
mother I was on much easier terms than with my
grandfather. If a favor was to be asked of my
grandfather, it was asked with fear and trembling;
the request was postponed to the last moment, and
then made with hesitation and blushes and a con-
fused utterance.

One of the means of keeping the boys of that
generation in order was a little bundle of birchen
rods, bound together by a small cord, and generally
suspended on a nail against the wall in the kitchen.
This was esteemed as much a part of the necessary
furniture as the crane that hung in the kitchen fire-
place, or the shovel and tongs. It sometimes hap-
pened that the boy suffered a fate similar to that
of the eagle in the fable, wounded by an arrow
fledged with a feather from his own wing ; in other

words, the boy was made to gather the twigs in-
tended for his own castigation.

It has never been quite clear to me why the birch
was chosen above all other trees of the wood to
yield its twigs for this purpose. The beech of our
forests produces sprays as slender, as flexible, and
as tough ; and farmers, wherever the beech is com-
mon, cut its long and pliant branches for driving
oxen. Yet the use of birchen rods for the correc-
tion of children is of very great antiquity. In his
" Discourse on Forest Trees," written three hun-
dred years ago, Evelyn speaks of birchen twigs as
an implement of the school-master; and Loudon,
in his "Arboretum," goes yet further back. He
says : " The birch has been used as the instrument
of correction in schools from the earliest ages."
The English poets of the last century make fre-
quent mention of this use of birchen twigs ; but in
Loudon's time, whose book was published thirty
years since, he remarks that the use of these rods,
both in schools and private families, was fast pass-
ing away, — a change on which the boys both of
England and the United States may well be con-
gratulated, — for the birchen rod was, in my time,
even more freely used in the school than in the
household.

The chastisement which was thought so whole-
some in the case of boys, was at that time adminis-
tered, for petty crimes, to grown-up persons. About
a mile from where I lived stood a public whipping-
post, and I remember seeing a young fellow, of
about eighteen years of age, upon whose back, by
direction of a justice of the peace, forty lashes had
just been laid, as the punishment for a theft which
he had committed. His eyes were red, like those
of one who had been crying, and I well remember
the feeling of curiosity, mingled with pity and fear,
with which I gazed on him. That. L think, was
the last example of corporal punishment inflicted
by law in that neighborhood. The whipping-post
stood in its place for several years afterward, the
memorial of a practice which had passed away.

The awe in which the boys of that time held
their parents extended to all elderly persons, toward
whom our behavior was more than merely respect-
ful, for we all observed a hushed and subdued de-
meanor in their presence. Toward the ministers
of the gospel this behavior was particularly marked.
At that time, every township in Massachusetts, the
State in which I lived, had its minister, who was

IOO

THE BOYS OF MY BOYHOOD.

[December,

settled there for life, and when he once came
among his people was understood to have entered
into a connection with them scarcely less lasting
than the marriage tie. The community in which
he lived regarded him with great veneration, and
the visits which from time to time he made to the
district schools seemed to the boys important occa-
sions, for which special preparation was made.
When he came to visit the school which I attended,
we all had on our Sunday clothes, and were ready
for him with a few answers to the questions in the
" Westminster Catechism." He heard us recite
our lessons, examined us in the catechism, and
then began a little address, which I remember was
the same on every occasion. He told us how much
greater were the advantages of education which we
enjoyed than those which had fallen to the lot of
our parents, and exhorted us to make the best
possible use of them, both for our own sakes and
that of our parents, who were ready to make any
sacrifice for us, even so far as to take the bread out
of their own mouths to give us. I remember being
disgusted with this illustration of parental kindness
which I was obliged to listen to twice at least in
every year.

The good man had, perhaps, less reason than
he supposed to magnify the advantages of educa-
tion enjoyed in the common schools at that time.
Reading, spelling, writing and arithmetic, with a
little grammar and a little geography, were all that
was taught, and these by persons much less quali-
fied, for the most part, than those who now give
instruction. Those, however, who wished to pro-
ceed further took lessons from graduates of the
colleges, who were then much more numerous in
proportion to the population than they now are.

The profound respect shown to the clergy in
those days had this good effect — that wherever
there was a concourse of people, their presence
prevented the occurrence of anything disorderly or
unseemly. The minister, therefore, made it one
of his duties to be present on those occasions which
brought people together in any considerable num-
bers. His appearance had somewhat the effect
which that of a policeman now has at a public
assembly in one of our large towns. At that time
there was, in each township, at least one company
of militia, which was required to hold several meet-
ings in the course of the year, and at these, I
remember, the minister was always present. The
military parade, with the drums and fifes and other
musical instruments, was a powerful attraction for
the boys, who came from all parts of the neighbor-
hood to the place at which the militia mustered.
But on these occasions there was one respect in
which the minister's presence proved but a slight
restraint upon excess. There were then no tem-

perance societies, no temperance lecturers helc
forth, no temperance tracts were ever distributed
nor temperance pledges given. It was, to be sure j.
esteemed a shame to get drunk ; but as long a:
they stopped short of this, people, almost withou ,
exception, drank grog and punch freely with
out much fear of a reproach from any quarter!
Drunkenness, however, in that demure population
was not obstreperous, and the man who was over!
taken by it was generally glad to slink out of sight

I remember an instance of this kind. Then
had been a muster of a militia company on thef
church green for the election of one of its officers,
and the person elected had treated the members ol
the company and all who were present to sweetened
rum and water, carried to the green in pailfuls
with a tin cup to each pail for the convenience ox
drinking. The afternoon was far spent, and I wa>
going home with other boys, when we overtook in
young man who had taken too much of the election
toddy, and in endeavoring to go quietly home, had
got but a little way from the green, when he fell hi
a miry place, and was surrounded by three or foul
persons, who assisted in getting him on his leg;
again. The poor fellow seemed in great distress,
and his new nankeen pantaloons, daubed with th'
mire of the road, and his dangling limbs, gave hinf
a most wretched appearance. It was, I think, th'
first time that I had ever seen a drunken man. Al
I approached to pass him by, some of the olde
boys said to me, "Do not go too near him, for \i
you smell a drunken man it will make you drunk.'
Of course I kept at a good distance, but not out o 1
hearing, for I remember hearing him lament hi
condition in these words : " Oh dear, I shall die ! :
" Oh dear, I wish I had n't drinked any ! " " Ol|
dear, what will my poor Betsy say ? " What hi
poor Betsy said 1 never heard, but I saw him le<
off in the direction of his home, and I continue)
on my way with the other boys, impressed with ;
salutary horror of drunkenness and a fear of drunker:
men.

One of the entertainments of the boys of my time
was what were called the "raisings," meaning thi
erection of the timber frames of houses or barns;
to which the boards were to be afterward nailed*
Here the minister made a point of being present*
and hither the able-bodied men of the neighbor"!,
hood, the young men especially, were summoned,
and took part in the work with great alacrity,
was a spectacle for us next to that of a performe
on the tight-rope, to see the young men wall!
steadily on the narrow footing of the beams at
great height from the ground, or as they stood tcl
catch in their hands the wooden pins and the brace:*
flung to them from below. They vied with eacll
other in the dexterity and daring with which thejj

i8 7 6.]

THE BOYS OF MY BOYHOOD.

lor

| ; went through with the work, and when the skeleton
, of the building was put together, some one among
them generally capped the climax of fearless ac-
, tivity by standing on the ridge-pole with his head
j downward and his heels in the air. At that time,
( even the presence of the minister was no restraint
1 upon the flow of milk punch and grog, which in
[ some cases was taken to excess. The practice of
.calling the neighbors to these "raisings" is now
^discontinued in the rural neighborhoods; the car-
penters provide their own workmen for the busi-
ness of adjusting the timbers of the new building
,J ri to each other, and there is no consumption of
grog.
Another of the entertainments of rustic life in the
[region of which I am speaking was the making of
,, maple sugar. This was a favorite frolic of the boys.
The apparatus for the sugar camp was of a much
['ruder kind than is now used. The sap was brought
1 in buckets from the wounded trees and poured into
l r a great caldron which hung over a hot fire from a
..stout horizontal pole supported at each end by an
jiupright stake planted in the ground. Since that
Xtitne they have built in every maple grove a sugar-
l, house — a little building in which the process of
:,„making sugar is carried on with several ingenious

i.; contrivances unknown at that time, when every-

u'.hing was done in the open air.
1 From my father's door, in the latter part of
March and the early part of April, we could see
perhaps a dozen columns of smoke rising over the

voods in different places where the work was going
>n. After the sap had been collected and boiled
or three or four days, the time came when the
(jj,hickening liquid was made to pass, into the form
,| )f sugar. This was when the sirup had become
,,L )f such a consistency that it would "feather" —
I hat is to say, when a beechen twig, formed at the
,'.i mall end into a little loop, dipped into the hot
, I , irup and blown upon by the breath, sent into the

■ J ir a light, feathery film. The huge caldron was

hen lifted from the fire, and its contents were
ml .

■ zither dipped out and poured into molds, or stirred

.'riskly till the sirup cooled and took the form of

ordinary brown sugar in loose grains. This proc-

ss was exceedingly interesting to the boys who

' ame to watch its different stages and to try from

me to time the sirup as it thickened.

In autumn, the task of stripping the husks from

, le ears of Indian corn was made the occasion of

, )cial meetings, in which the boys took a special

" art. A farmer would appoint what was called

a husking," to which he invited his neighbors.

'he ears of maize in the husk, sometimes along

ith part of the stalk, were heaped on the barn

oor. In the evening, lanterns were brought, and,

iated on piles of dry husks, the men and boys

stripped the ears of their covering, and breaking
them from the stem with a sudden jerk, threw them
into baskets placed for the purpose. It was often a
merry time ; the gossip of the neighborhood was
talked over, stories were told, jests went round,
and at the proper hour the assembly adjourned to
the dwelling-house and were treated to pumpkin-
pie and cider, which in that season had not been
so long from the press as to have parted with its
sweetness.

Quite as cheerful were the " apple-parings,"
which on autumn evenings brought together the
young people of both sexes in little circles. The
fruit of the orchards was pared and quartered and
the core extracted, and a supply of apples in this
state provided for making what was called "apple-
sauce," a kind of preserve of which every family
laid in a large quantity every year.

The cider-making season in autumn was, at the
time of which I am speaking, somewhat correspond-
ent to the vintage in the wine countries of Europe.
Large tracts of land in New England were over-
shadowed by rows of apple-trees, and in the month
of May a journey through that region was a journey
through a wilderness of bloom. In the month of
October the whole population was busy gathering
apples under the trees, from which they fell in
heavy showers as the branches were shaken by
the strong arms of the farmers. The creak of the
cider-mill, turned by a horse moving in a circle,
was heard in every neighborhood as one of the
most common of rural sounds. The freshly pressed
juice of the apples was most agreeable to boyish
tastes, and the whole process of gathering the fruit
and making the cider came in among the more
laborious rural occupations in a way which diversi-
fied them pleasantly, and which made it seem a
pastime. The time that was given to making cider,
and the number of barrels made and stored in the
cellars of the farm-houses, would now seem incred-
ible. A hundred barrels to a single farm was no
uncommon proportion, and the quantity swallowed
by the men of that da)' led to the habits of intem-
perance which at length alarmed the more thought-
ful part of the community, and gave occasion to
the formation of temperance societies and the intro-
duction of better habits.

From time to time, the winter evenings, and
occasionally a winter afternoon, brought the young
people of the parish together in attendance upon
a singing-school. Some person who possessed
more than common power of voice and skill in
modulating it, was employed to teach psalmody,
and the boys were naturally attracted to his school
as a recreation. It often happened that the teacher
was an enthusiast in his vocation, and thundered
forth the airs set down in the music-books with a

102

THE BOYS OF MY

lOYHOOD.

[Decembef

fervor that was contagious. A few of those who
attempted to learn psalmody were told that they
had no aptitude for the art, and were set aside, but
that did not prevent their attendance as hearers of
the others. In those days a set of tunes were in
fashion mostly of New England origin, which have
since been laid aside in obedience to a more fastidi-
ous taste. They were in quick time, sharply ac-
cented, the words clearly articulated, and often
running into fugues in which the bass, the tenor,
and the treble chased each other from the middle
to the end of the stanza. I recollect that some
impatience was manifested when slower and graver
airs of church music were introduced by the choir,
and I wondered why the words should not be sung
in the same time that they were pronounced in
reading.

The streams which bickered through the narrow
glens of the region in which I lived were much
better stocked with trout in those days than now,
for the country had been newly opened to settle-
ment. The boys all were anglers. I confess to
having felt a strong interest in that "sport," as I
no longer call it. I have long since been weaned
from the propensity of which I speak ; but I have
no doubt that the instinct which inclines so many
to it, and some of them our grave divines, is a
remnant of the original wild nature of man. An-
other " sport," to which the young men of the
neighborhood sometimes admitted the elder boys,
was the autumnal squirrel-hunt. The young men
formed themselves into two parties equal in num-
ber, and fixed a day for the shooting. The party
which on that day brought down the greatest num-
ber of squirrels was declared the victor, and the
contest ended with some sort of festivity in the
evening.

I have not mentioned other sports and games of
the boys of that day, — that is to say, of seventy or
eighty years since, — such as wrestling, running,
leaping, base-ball, and the like, for in these there
was nothing to distinguish them from the same
pastimes at the present day. There were no public
lectures at that time on subjects of general interest ;
the profession of public lecturer was then unknown,
and eminent men were not solicited, as they now
are, to appear before audiences in distant parts of
the country, and gratify the curiosity of strangers
by letting them hear the sound of their voices.
But the men of those days were far more given
to attendance on public worship than those who
now occupy their place, and of course they took
their boys with them. They were not satisfied
with the morning and afternoon services, but each
neighborhood held a third service of its own in the
evening. Here some lay brother made a prayer,
hymns were sung by those who were trained at the

singing-schools, a sermon was read from the work
of some orthodox divine, and now and then a wor
of exhortation was addressed to the little assembl
by some one who was more fluent in speech tha
the rest.

Every parish had its tything-men, two in numbt
generally, whose business it was to maintain ordi
in the church during divine service, and who s;
with a stern countenance through the sermof
keeping a vigilant eye on the boys in the distal
pews and in the galleries. Sometimes, when hi
detected two of them communicating with eac
other, he went to one of them, took him by thl
button, and leading him away, seated him besicj
himself. His power extended to other delinquei
cies. He was directed by law to see that the Sal
bath was not profaned by people wandering in til
fields and angling in the brooks. At that time"*
law, no longer in force, directed that any pers(
who absented himself unnecessarily from publ
worship for a certain length of time, should pay
fine into the treasury of the county. I rememb
several persons of whom it was said that they h:
been compelled to pay this fine, but I do not r
member any of them who went to church aftx
ward.

For the boys of the present day an immen
number of books have been provided, some of the
excellent, some mere trash or worse, but scarce ai
are now read which are not of recent date. T
question is often asked, What books had they
read seventy or eighty years since ? They h
books, and some of great merit. There vM
" Sanford and Merton," and "Little Jack;" thtl
was "Robinson Crusoe," with its variations " Tl
Swiss Family Robinson " and " The New Robins*
Crusoe ; " there was Mrs. Trimmer's " Knowledl
of Nature," and Berquin's lively narratives a I
sketches translated from the French ; there \\l
"Philip Quarll," and Watts's "Poems for Cl-
dren," and Bunyan's " Pilgrim's Progress," a|
Mrs. Barbauld's writings, and the " Miscellanecl
Poems " of Cowper. Later, we had Mrs. Eel
worth's "Parent's Assistant" and " Evenings I
Home." All these, if not numerous, were at le.i
often read, and the frequent reading of a few goi
books is thought to be at least as improving— I
useful in storing the mind and teaching one 1
think — as the more cursory reading of many,
elementary books there was no lack, nor, as I ha
already intimated, any scarcity of private instru
ors, principally clergymen, educated at the c
leges.

I have here set down such particulars as n
occur to me of the employments, the amusemen
and the studies amidst which the boys of my ti
grew up and were trained for the duties of m;

i8 7 6.]

THE SECRET DOOR.

IO3

rltUood. Of those who set out with me in life there
ire few now remaining ; they are like old trees in
t young wood, waiting for a high wind to snap
heir aged trunks and level them with the ground.
They became dispersed to different parts of the
Country, particularly the new States of the West,
vhose institutions they have helped to form. They
iiiad grown up, in the main, a conscientious genera-
01 ion — laborious, enterprising, strict in the perform-
ance of duty, and obedient to the laws ; and on
Ijjhis account they were the very men to whom the
iliask of forming new communities might be most
ti dvantageously committed. A few of them became
j| listinguished above their fellows. One became
itj : .n eminent Orientalist, and settled at Athens, in
ajiireece. Another, with whom I used to contend
fj'ia the foot-race, became one of the millionaires of
li Jew York, and died not long since full of days,

leaving an honored memory. A third, my school-
fellow in preparing for college, retired from a pros-
perous mercantile career to become a lecturer on
political economy and the author of valuable works
on that science. One with whom I had a series of
written disputations, migrated to Indiana and be-
came one of its legislators. One was afterward the
founder of the American Tract Society, and now,
in the calm evening of a long life, employs himself
in writing its history. Two went to the East as
missionaries, and in the midst of their labors laid
down their lives before the approach of old age.

Whatever may have been the merits or the
shortcomings of the generation to which these men
belonged, they are now with the past, and it is yet
to be seen whether the different system now adopted
in training the youth of our country will give it a
better class of citizens.

THE SECRET DOOR.

(A Christmas Story pf Two Hundred Years Ago.)

By Susan Coolidge.

Knowle, in Kent, is an ancient manor-house.
t stands knee-deep in rich garden and pasture

rinds, with hay-fields and apple-orchards stretching
eyond, and solemn oak woods which whisper and
^iake their wise heads when the wind blows, as
lough possessed of secrets which must not be

etjooken. It is a real place, and the room which
;0U see in the picture is a real room. That makes
le picture much more interesting; don't you
link so ?

Very much as it looks to-day, it looked two hun-
red and thirty years ago, when Charles the First
as king of England. That was the Charles who
ad his head cut off, you may remember. Blue
hristmas smokes curled from the twisted chim-
eys in 1645, just as they will this year if the world

"Jjsts a month longer. The same dinnery fragrance
lied the air, for good cheer smells pretty much
ike in all ages and the world over. A few changes
lere may be — thicker trees, beds of gay flowers
hich were not known in that day ; and where
ice the moat — a ditch-like stream of green water
ivered with weeds and scum — ran round the walls,

iJ. now a trimly cut border of verdant turf. But

j, iese changes are improvements, and in all im-

. 3rtant respects the house keeps its old look, undis-

jj-lrbed by modern times and ways.

In the same nursery where modern boys and
girls eat, sleep and learn their A, B, C to-day, two
children lived. You see them in the picture — little
Ralph Tresham and his sister Henrietta. Quaint,
old-fashioned creatures they would look to us now;
but, in spite of their formal dresses and speech,
they were bright and merry and happy as any
children you can find among your acquaintances.
Ralph's name was pronounced "Rafe," and he
always called his sister " Hexie."

Christmas did not come to Knowle in its usual
bright shape in 1645. Gloom and sadness and
anxiety overshadowed the house ; and though the
little ones did not understand what the cause of the
anxiety was, they felt something wrong, and went
about quietly whispering to each other in corners,
instead of whooping and laughing, as had been
their wont. They had eaten their Christmas beef,
and toasted the king in a thimbleful of wine, as
usual, but their mother cried when they did so ; and
Joyce, the old butler, had carried off the pudding
with a face like a funeral. So, after dinner, they
crept away to the nursery, and there, by the win-
dow, began a long whispering talk. Hexie had
something very exciting to tell.

" Nurse thought I was asleep," she said, "but I
was n't quite ; and when they began to talk I woke

io4

THE SECRET DOOR.

[Decembe

up. That was n't wrong, was it, Rafe? I could n't
sleep when I could n't, could I ? "

" I suppose not ; but you need n't have listened.''
said Rafe, whose notions about honor were very
strict.

" I did pull the pillow over my ear, but the words
would get in," went on Henrietta, piteously. "Aud-
it was so interesting. Did you know that there
were such creatures as Bogies, Rafe ? Dorothy
thinks we have got one in our house, and that its

replied Hexie. " How long is it, brother? — sine
Humphrey went away, I mean. Wont he evt :
come back ? "

" I asked Winifred once, but she only said, ' Gc
knew,' that nothing had been heard of him sint
the battle when the king was taken. He might b
dead, or he might be escaped into foreign parts--;!,
and then she cried, oh, so hard, Hexie ! Poc
Humphrey ! I hope he is n't dead. But, about tl
Bogie, how curious it must be to meet one ! Oh,

'LET 15 GO EACK, SHE CKIED.

hole is in the great gallery, because once when she
was there dusting the armor, she heard a queer
noise in the wall, and what else could it be ? It
eats a great deal, does the Bogie. That 's the reason
nurse is sure we have got one. It ate all the cold
sheep's-head yesterday, and the day before half the
big pasty. No victual is safe in the larder, the
Bogie has such a big appetite, nurse says."

"I remember about the sheep's-head," said Rafe,
meditatively. "Almost all of it was left, and I
looked to see it come in cold ; but when I asked,
Joyce said there was none. Cold sheep's-head is
very good. Do you remember how much Hum-
phrey used to like it ? "

" I don't remember exactly, it is so long ago,"

say, let us go to the gallery now, and see if we he
any strange noises there. Will you ? "

Oh, Rafe ! I 'm afraid. I don't quite like

" But you can't be afraid if I'm there," said Rai
valiantly; " besides, I'll put on Humphrey's
sword which he left behind. Then if the Bdjjj
comes — we shall see ! "

Rafe spoke like a conquering hero, Hexie thougl
so, though she trembled, she made no further o
jection, but stood by while he lifted down t
sword, helped to fasten its belt over his should'
and followed along the passage which led to t
gallery. The heavy sword clattered and rattled
it dragged on the floor, and the sound was echo
in a ghostly way, which renewed Hexie's fears.

THE SECRET DOOR.

I05

it: " Rafe ! Rafe ! let us go back ! " she cried.

1; "Go back yourself if you are afraid," replied
dph, stoutly ; and as going back alone through

ne dim passage seemed just then worse than stay-
er where she was, Hexie. stayed with her valiant
other.

is- Very softly they unlatched the gallery door, and
lie in. It was a long, lofty apartment, paneled
th cedar-wood, to which time had given a beau-

1 ill light-brown color. The ceiling, of the same

iod, was carved, here and there, with shields,

ats of arms, and other devices. There was lit-

furniture : one tall cabinet, a few high-backed

itch chairs, and some portraits hanging on the

.Us. The sun, not yet quite set, poured a stream

red light across the polished floor, leaving the

J corners and the empty spaces formidably dusk.

fie children had seldom been in the gallery at

s hour, and it looked to them almost like a

ange place, not at all as it did at noonday when

;y came to jump up and down the slippery

or, and play hide-and-seek in the corners which

seemed so dark and dismal.
Even Rafe felt the difference, and shivered in
te of his bold heart and the big sword by his
e. Timidly they went forward, hushing their
itsteps and peering furtively into the shadows,
ddenly Hexie stopped with a little scream.

lose to them stood a huge suit of armor, larger
i taller than a man. The empty eye-holes of
: helmet glared out quite like real eyes, and the
ole figure was terrible enough to frighten any
le girl. But it was not at the armor that Hexie
earned ; the iron man was an old friend of the
ldren's. Many a game of hide-and-seek had

|5;y played around, and behind, and even inside
ti; for Humphrey had contrived a cunning way
which the figure could be taken to pieces and
t together again ; and more than once Rafe

jjjji been popped inside, and had lain shaking

" h laughter while Hexie vainly searched for him
ough all the gallery. This had not happened

hi .'ly, for Rafe was hardly strong enough to manage
himself the screws and hinges which opened the

J-nor ; but he knew the iron man too well to scream

ti: him, and so did Hexie. The object which ex-

;ij)Sd her terror was something different, and so

,;.! inge and surprising that it is no wonder she

I earned.

c ulose by the armor, half hidden by a curtain of
ivy tapestry, was an open door, where never door

I I been known to be. It stood ajar, and dimly
1 ble inside was a narrow staircase winding up-

' The hole of the Bogie ! " gasped Hexie, clutch-

at Rafe's arm. He started, and felt for the

ird. It rattled fearfully, and the sound com-

pleted Hexie's terror. She burst away, flew like a
scared lapwing down the gallery, along the pas-
sages, and never stopped till she reached the
nursery and her own bed, where, with two pillows
and the quilt drawn over her head, she lay sobbing
bitterly at the thought of Ralph left behind, to be
eaten perhaps by the Bogie ! Poor little Hexie !

Ralph, meanwhile, stood his ground. His heart
beat very fast, but he would not run away, — that was
for girls. It must be owned, however, that when a
moment later the sound of muffled voices became
audible down the stairs, he trembled extremely,
and was guilty of the unmanlike act of hiding be-
hind the curtain. He was only ten years old, which
must plead his excuse with bigger boys who are
confident that they could never, under any circum-
stances, hide themselves or be afraid.

The voices drew nearer, steps sounded, and two
figures came out of the narrow door-way. Could
there be two Bogies ? No wonder they ate so much.
But in another minute all thought of Bogies van-
ished from Ralph's mind, for in one of the figures
he recognized his own sister Winifred.

Her companion was a man. There was some-
thing familiar in his form. It moved forward, and
Ralph jumped so that the big sword rattled again.
Bogie number two was his brother Humphrey,
mourned as dead ever since the summer before,
when so many brave gentlemen gave up their lives
for King Charles at the battle of Naseby.

''What noise was that?" whispered Winifred,
fearfully.

"Some sound from below," replied Humphrey,
after listening a moment. " Must you go, Winnie?"

"I must, dear Humphrey. I dare not absent
myself longer lest I be missed and suspected. Oh,
if to-morrow were but over, and you safe on the
French lugger and over the sea ! I cannot breathe
while this hiding and danger go on."

" I suppose I ought to be glad also," said Humph-
rey, ruefully; "but to me that French lugger
means exile, and loneliness, and poverty, for the
rest of my life, perhaps. Better have laid down
my life with the rest at Naseby, in striking one last
blow for the king."

"Don't, don't speak so!" protested Winifred,
tearfully. "You are alive, thank God ; and once
these wars are over we may rejoin you, and have a
happy home somewhere, if not in the land of our
fathers. Now, dear Humphrey, have you all you
need for the night ? "

" Christmas cheer," said Humphrey, in a would-
be cheerful voice. " Beef and ale, — what better
fare could be ? You are a gallant provider, my
Winnie, and there is need, for since I have lain
in that hole with nothing else to do, my appetite
has raged like a wolf. That sheep's-head was

io6

THE SECRET DOOR.

[Decem It

wondrous savory. I say though, Winnie, what do
the servants think of the famine I create in the
larder?"

" Oh, the stupid creatures fancy that a Bogie has
taken up his residence here. A very hungry Bogie,
Joyce calls the creature ! "

The brother and sister laughed ; then they
kissed each other.

" Good-night, dearest Winifred."

"Good-night, brother;" and Humphrey vanished
up the stairs. Winifred lingered a moment ; then,
as if remembering something, opened the door
again and ran after him. Ralph marked that she
laid her hand on a particular boss in the carved
wainscot, and pressed it in hard, whereon the door
sprang open. He stole out, laid his hand on the same
boss, and felt the spring give way under his touch.
Some undefined idea of stealing in later, to make
Humphrey a visit, was in his head; but he heard
Winifred returning, and hurried out of the gallery.
Putting back the sword in its place, he entered the
nursery. No Hexie was visible, but a sobbing sound
drew his attention to a tumbled heap on the bed.

" Is that you, Hexie? Why, what are you cry-
ing about ? " pulling away the pillow which she
held tight.

"Oh, Rafe ! Then the Bogie didn't eat you,
after all ! " And Hexie buried her tear-stained face
in his shoulder.

"Bogie! Nonsense! There are no such things
as Bogies ! "

" What was it, then, that lived up that dreadful
stairs ? "

"I can't tell you; only it was nothing at all
dreadful. And, Hexie, don't say a word about that
door to any one, will you ? It might make great
trouble if you did."

" I did tell Deborah, when she fetched the can-
dle and asked why I cried, that I saw a strange
door in the gallery," faltered Hexie, truthful,
though penitent.

"Oh! Hexie, how could you? I don't like
Deborah, and her father is a crop-eared knave.
Humphrey said so one day. How could you talk
to her about the door, Hexie ? "

" I — don't know. I was frightened, and she
asked me," sobbed Hexie. " Will it do any harm,
Rafe ? "

" It may," said Rafe, gloomily. " But don't cry,
Hexie. You meant no harm, at all events."

" Oh, don't speak so gravely and so like Joyce,"
said Hexie, much troubled. She cried herself to
sleep that night. Deborah, who undressed her,
asked many questions about the gallery and the
door.

" It was very dark, and perhaps she mistook," —
that was all Hexie could be made to say. Ralph

was disturbed and wakeful, and slept later tltal
usual next morning. He jumped up in a hua
and made what haste he could with dressing m
breakfast, but it seemed as though they never t<|
so much time before ; and all the while he ate m
was conscious of a stir and bustle in the houH
which excited his curiosity very much. Knocking
the sound of feet — something unusual was going gri

As soon as possible he slipped away from nu|
and ran to the gallery. The door was half opui
He looked in, and stood still with terror. Men.a J
brown uniforms and steel caps, were there souBi
ing the ^alls and tapping the floor-boards vfl
staves. The gallery seemed full of them, thoifij
when Rafe counted there were but five.

"This man of iron was, in all likelihood lal
Malignant also," he heard one of them say, strikja
the armor with his fist.

" He is somewhat old for that. Methinks t|
is armor of the time of that man of blood, Ha§
the Eighth. Move it aside, Jotham, that we
search the farther panel."

So the heavy figure was thrust into a corner, Ml
the men went on tapping with their wands. Re]
groaned within himself when he heard them declljH
that the wall sounded hollow, and saw them seaifej
ing for a spring. Twenty times it seemed as fhoihl
they must have lighted on the right place. TweBJ
times they just missed it.

"We were ill advised to come without too la
declared the man who seemed leader of the pa :
" Come thou to my shop, Peter Kettle, and than
Bartimeus and Zerrubabel, and we will fetch s®J
things as are needful. Jotham, stay thou here.M
see that no man escapeth from the concealing
behind the wall."

So four of the men went away, leaving Jothw
striding up and down as on guard. Preseiiyl
came a shout from beneath the window :

" Jotham ! our leader hath dropped his poucln «
which are the keys of the smithy. Hasten .H
bring it to the outer door."

"Aye, aye ! " answered Jotham, and, poucliJll
hand, he ran down the stairs. Now was Rafe's H
portunity. Like a flash he was across the gall<]M
his hand on the boss. The door flew open, M
he fell into the arms of Humphrey, who, swon §1
hand and teeth set, stood on the lower step of k I
staircase, prepared to sell his liberty as dearhBJ
possible.

" Rafe ! little Rafe ! " he exclaimed.

"Hush! The man will come back," pa r W
Rafe. " Come away — hide — oh, where ? " Til
with a sudden inspiration he dragged his brotit |
toward the iron man. "Get inside," he crll
'• They will never think of searching there ! <||
Humphrey — make haste ! Get inside ! "

Hug

THE SECRET DOOR.

IO7

' 'here was no time to be lost. With the speed of
Operation, Humphrey unscrewed, lifted, stepped
! l >de the armor. Rafe slipped the fastenings to-
'j'lher, whispered " shut your eyes," and flew back
l( ! his hiding-place. Just in time, for Jotham's
°|) was on the stair, and next moment he entered
i>|l gallery, and resumed his march up and down,
(I e dreaming that the man sought for was peep-
through the helmet holes at him, not three feet

fy.

resently the other soldiers came back with ham-
's and wrenches, and in a short time the beauti-

' wainscot, split into pieces, lay on the floor.
*■' idenly there was a shout. The secret door had

n open, and the staircase stood revealed. Four

the men, with pikes and pistols, prepared to

iW.'nd, while the fifth guarded the opening below.

it that moment Winifred entered the gallery
i a the farther end. She turned deadly pale when

saw the open door and the men.

Oh ! Heaven have mercy ! " she cried, and

pped half fainting into a chair.

,afe darted across the floor and seized her hand.
Hush," he whispered. " Don't say a word,
t< -:r. He is safe."
|1 He ? Who ? " cried the amazed Winifred.

ut now voices sounded from above. The men
»l>e coming down. Winifred rallied her courage,
i: :, and went forward. She was very white still,
mfcishe spoke in a steady voice. Her two brothers,
UMiphrey in his hiding-place and little Rafe by
lW side, both admired her greatly.
lip What is the meaningof this, Jotham Green?"
it.: demanded. " By what warrant do you enter
Itii spoil our house ? "

By the warrant which all true men have to
rap'ch for traitors," said Jotham.
sis You will find none such here," responded Win-
| i firmly.

up We find the lurking-place in which one such
nil doubtless lain," said Zerrubabel. "Where

':s exist, look out for vermin."
You are less than civil, neighbor. An old

se like this has many strange nooks and corners
al i'hich the inhabitants may have neither use nor

knowledge. If your search is done, I will beg you to
make good the damage you have caused as best you
may, and with as little noise as possible, that my
mother be not alarmed. Jotham Green, you are
a good workman, 1 know. I recollect how deftly
you once repaired that cabinet for us."

All the men knew Winifred, and her calm and
decided manner made its impression. Jotham
slowly picked up the fragments of the paneling
and began to fit them together. The rest con-
sulted, and at last rather sheepishly, and with a
muttered half apology about "wrong information,"
went away, taking with them the injured wood-
work, which Jotham undertook to repair. Rafe's
first words after they disappeared were:

" Winifred, you must dismiss Deborah. It is
she that has betrayed us."

"How do you know that, Rafe ? "

Then it all came out. Winifred listened to the
tale with streaming tears.

"Oh, Rafe, my darling, how brave you were!
You played the man for us to-day, and have saved
— I trust you have saved — our Humphrey. The
men will not return to-day, and to-night the lugger
sails."

And Humphrey was saved. Before morning,
well disguised, he had made his way across country
to a little fishing-port, embarked, and reached
France without farther accident.

So that strange Christmas adventure ended hap-
pily. It was all long, long ago. Humphrey and
Winifred and Rafe lived their lives out, and lay
down to rest a century and a half since under the
daisy-sprinkled English sod. Little Hexie died an
aged woman, before any of us was born. But still
the beautiful old manor-house stands amid its gar-
dens and pasture lands, with the silvery look of
time on its gray walls. Still the armed figure
keeps guard beside the secret staircase, the tapes-
try hangs in the old heavy folds, evening reddens
the cedar walls and the polished floor, and every-
thing occupies the same place and wears the same
look that it did when little Rafe played the man in
that gallery, and saved his brother Humphrey,
more than two hundred years ago.

>th

io8

THE LETTERS AT SCHOOL.

[Decem

.THE LETTERS AT SCHOOL.

By M. M. D.

One day the letters went to school,
And tried to learn each other ;

They got so mixed 't was really hard
To pick out one from t' other.

A went in first, and Z went last ;

The rest all were between them, —
K, L and M, and N, O, P,—

I wish you could have seen them !

B, C, D, E and J, K, L,

Soon jostled well their betters ;

Q, R, S, T — I grieve to say —
Were very naughty letters.

Of course, ere long, they came to words-
What else could be expected ?

Till E made D, J, C and T
Decidedly dejected.

DOINGS OF THE "POLLYS CHRISTMAS SOCIETY

IO9

Now, through it all, the Consonants
Were rudest and uncouthest, ,

While all the pretty Vowel girls
Were certainly the smoothest.

And simple U kept far from Q,
With face demure and moral,
" Because," she said, "we are, we two,
So apt to start a quarrel ! "

But spiteful P said, " Pooh for U ! "
(Which made her feel quite bitter),

And, calling O, L, E to help,
He really tried to hit her.

Cried A, " Now E and C, come here !

If both will aid a minute,
Good P will join in making peace,

Or else the mischief's in it."

And smiling E, the ready sprite,
Said, "Yes, and count me double."

This done, sweet peace shone o'er the scene,
And gone was all the trouble 1

Meanwhile, when U and P made up,
The Cons'nants looked about them,

And kissed the Vowels, for, you see,
They could n't do without them.

DOINGS OF THE "POLLY'S CHRISTMAS SOCIETY."

(As told by One of its Members.')

By Olive Thorne.

HAT started the
thing, I don't re-
member. Oh, I
believe Nell Tain-
tor proposed it ;
anyway, it was
splendid, and I '11
tell you all about
it.

We girls had a
society, you know,
and we had n't
anything in par-
ticular to do; and
Nell proposed
that we should
make something
for Polly Stevens'
Christmas.

Polly 's a real
nice girl, and used
to go to our school,
she fell on the ice last winter, and hurt her
, and she has to lie down all the time ; she
even stand up a minute.

ell, we used to go and see her as often as we
L 1 ; but, of course, we had our lessons, and prac-
'„ and other things, out of school ; and so she
to get awfully lonesome, Nell said, because she
!n't do much of anything, and she had read

every book Nell had, — Nell lived next door, and
used to run in. And she staid alone ever so much,
because her mother 's a dress-maker, and has to go
out, and she did n't have things very comfortable ;
the doctor's bills were so large, that her mother
had as much as she could do to get along.

When Nell told us about her, we felt ashamed
that we had n't been to see her more, and so we
just got up a plan to give her a surprise. We gave
our society a new name, " Polly's Christmas So-
ciety," or " P. C. Society," in public, so that every
one should not know what it was, and we all went
to work for her.

Kate Woodbury was president — splendid girl
Kate is. She said she would make a nice wrapper
for Polly, out of a blue dress of her own that she
had burned a hole in ; she knew her mother 'd let
her have it. Mattie Barker said she would give her
a quilt, or spread, that she was making out of bright
bits of silk. It was log-cabin pattern, and real
pretty. Alice Burnett said she would make her a
pretty rug to lay before her lounge; the floor was
bare, and it would look so pretty. She knew how
to make one out of round pieces of black and red
and white woolen. You 've seen them ? A black
one, about as big as a tea-cup, at the bottom, a red
one, a little smaller, laid on that, and a quite small
white one on top ; all tied together with a tuft of
red thread in the middle of the white one. Then,
when she had lots of these made, she sewed them

DOINGS OF THE

POLLY S CHRISTMAS SOCIETY.

[Deck I

all on an oval piece of old sacking, and it was real
bright and pretty. You can shake the dust out of
them.

Nell said Polly needed a curtain for the window
at the head of her lounge ; she had nothing but an
old shade, and it was n't nice, so I said I would
make her one like some I saw at my aunt's last
summer. It was of unbleached muslin, with two
wide stripes of bright red, and bright blue percale
across the top and the bottom, — a little way apart,
you know. It did n't cost much, and I had a dol-
lar of my own, and it was ever so pretty. It looked
like some foreign cashmere thing.

Well, we all went to work with a will. Nelly
got Will, her brother, to make a lounge-frame,
Polly had a horrid old hair-cloth sofa. He made
it out of some timber they had in the yard. It
was rough, of course, but stout I tell you; and we
nailed some old bagging on it for a bottom, and
made a nice soft cushion for it, and a big pillow,
and covered the whole with real pretty chintz; and
Mattie made a crocheted tidy for it, that could be
washed. Oh, I forgot ! John Burnett sawed out a
lovely set of shelves, with his new jig-saw, and Kate
Woodbury took an old stand out of their attic. It
was good, and strong, but awfully old-fashioned ;
and it had two drawers, and leaves to let down. It
was just the thing for Polly, because she could
keep her things in the drawers, you see ; and her
shelves could stand on it. And I made a cover
to fit it, out of Turkish toweling, the new-fashioned
way, you know, with gay figures sewed on ; and
Alice brought a sweet little vase that she had, to
hold flowers, or ferns and grasses, in winter. We
knew Polly was very fond of flowers, and Nell said
she had to keep them in a tea-cup.

Let me see, was that all ? Oh, no ; every girl
collected all the nice books she could. We each
gave one or two of our own, and asked the boys
that knew Polly, and most all our mothers gave us
one or two, so we had a real lovely library. I re-
member some of the books — " Undine," " Grim's
Stories," " Hans Andersen's Works," a whole set
(Johnny Burnett gave that ; wasn't he splendid!)
and "Little Women," and "We Girls," and —
oh, lots of others I can't remember, only all nice
ones, and in good order. Mrs. Woodbury put in
a lovely new Bible with clasps, and there were lots
of poetry books; she 's very fond of poetry.

And — let me think — Mattie's sister, who 's been
to Europe, gave her a most lovely photograph. —
three little angels, or cherubs, or something. Oh,
it was too sweet for anything ! I 've seen Polly
look at it till she cried, and I wanted to myself,
though I 'm not good, like Polly.

We got a glass, and made a frame for it of card-
board, with delicate lichens glued on. You know

how ? they 're real pretty, are n't they ? W<ij
went out in the woods to get them, and we broB
home such beautiful mosses, — we tried to thirl
something to make of them, and at last we din
some of the nicest in a box, and covered it witlH
pieces of glass cut the right shape to make a 'M
like a box, and fastened at the corners with corti
paper gummed on. We found two ferns M
yet, so late as that, and some partridge-berry ■
Kate put in a slip of her Kenilworth ivy, and.ift.
haps you won't think so, but it was just lovely I
it grew all winter, and I believe Polly enjo^B
more than anything, she watched it so much sil
knew every leaf, she said.

Well, I believe that was all. These things jol
us some weeks to do, and we worked hard ffl
tell you. We had hardly time to make our CB
mas presents for our own folks, but I did getB
to embroider that cushion for mamma; is til
pretty ? I did every stitch myself. But wheiB
I? Oh, all this time the secret was kept nfl
though a good many knew about it ; and ju>B
fore Christmas, one day Mrs. Stevens, Polly's iB
er, was cutting a dress for Mrs. Barker, and \B
went over to tell her about it. Nell TaintoiBJ
her that we girls had a society, and had been BJ
ing some presents for Polly.

Well, she cried ! I do wonder why peopl.M
when they 're glad ! She said she had been I'M
to get Polly something nice for Christmas, sl.ha
such a dull life, and she was so patient ; 1 H
spite of all she could do, everything she coul< fld
was used up in doctor's bills and rent. Sh sal
she meant to make her a cake, at least, an<BJ
said, right off, that she could come into their tul
to make it, so that Polly should n't know.

We talked the thing over, and we decidedM
Mrs. Stevens should get Polly to bed eaijH
Christmas Eve. There was a hall between t'BJ
ting-room and bedroom, and she thought BJ
wouldn't hear us, and we were to go abouljgl
o'clock to fix it all up for her, and then alll
there the next morning to see her surprise. AH
day, Mrs. Stevens told us afterward, Polly w;i§L
low-spirited, though she tried to be cheerful Vm
thing. She was a good girl, always; but sM
membered that our school was getting readW
festival and a Christmas-tree, and she could n
thinking of last year, I suppose, when she was I
and had presents with the rest of us.

She did have a present on the tree, too, ;B
as the rest of us ; and we took it with us wl H
went that night. It was a real nice work-bo:|
everything in it complete. Miss Murton m
Polly was her pet scholar.

Well, we could hardly wait for eight o'cl
you may imagine, and before the clock wa

'■I

DOINGS OF. THE "POLLYS CHRISTMAS SOCIETY,

I I I

king we were there. Polly was abed and asleep,
i,s. Stevens said, and we went right to work. The
|i 's brought in the lounge, and put it in a pleasant
I Inerof the room, and we girls fixed it up with its
il v quilt and nice big pillow ; and we laid the rug
I m in front of it, and hung the curtain over the
j dow ; and put the stand, with its cover, and the
j ik-shelves, at the head where she could reach it.
|;d we put the moss-thing on it, and the vase filled

1 grasses, and ferns, and bitter-sweet on top of
Then we filled the shelves with books, and

ig the picture where she could see it without

I/ing. And then we trimmed the whole room
l evergreens left from decorating our church.
,ir the door we put "Merry Christmas," in
| umn leaves. Mrs. Taintor made it-; she sewed
[f leaves upon white muslin, and it looked as
;| igh it was right on the wall.
shite worked there, if you '11 believe me, till twelve
jlock, and when we finished, it was just lovely. All
;j ; time Mrs. Stevens could hardly help a bit ; she
Jj sat in the corner and cried. I never saw such
n t3man.

1 1, fe gave Mrs. Stevens the new blue wrapper.
Hi told her to put it on Polly when she dressed
.Jf and tell her the girls sent it to her so she would
i til fine when we came. I was so excited I
),i|,;ght I should n't' sleep a wink that night, but 1
n ^ after all — slept like a log, and I had to hurry off
jljjre breakfast so as not to be late.
. t |t seven o'clock we were all there— all we girls,
J/an; Will and Johnny wouldn't go — and Mrs.
glens went into the bedroom and dressed Polly,
j E ) brought her out. She was so thin and light
e j,|j she was easily carried. Polly was so delighted
i her pretty wrapper that she looked perfectly
lj ( |.)y when she came in. The first thing she saw
[ijii her mother laid her down was us, and she
n, '" Oh, girls ! " but at that minute she seemed
:e something strange in the room. "Why,
" she began, and stopped short, and looked
j]f;;nd. She looked at everything — the walls, the
re, the stand and books, the mosses, the
%£ itself; her chin began to quiver, and her
^Lto work, and suddenly she just buried her face
ut ,Lie pillow and cried as hard as she could cry. I
jjjp thought of crying ; and I 'm sure I don't
jjjj/why, but I found the tears running down my
„jXks, . and looked around, and every one of the
was crying, too. It was the most ridiculous
; I ever saw, but I could n't help it. Soon we
IB to laugh, though, and make fun of our cry-
• and we would n't let Polly even try to say
,,,.nkyou!"

en we all went out into the hall and brought
i, j r surprise for Mrs. Stevens. We told her we

had come to stay to breakfast, and every one of us
had "a basket full of good things from our own
breakfasts — broiled chickens, breakfast rolls, hot
coffee (Nell brought that from her mother's kitch-
en), cold meat, pickles, hot Saratoga potatoes (from
Nell's), and ever so many things. We pulled
out the table and spread it before Polly's lounge,
and before long we sat down to a jolly breakfast.
There was ever so much left, though.

Finally about ten o'clock we went away, and after
we were gone Polly received the very best present
of all from her mother. You see it worried her
'most to death that she could not help her mother.
It was one thing that kept her back. And Mrs.
Stevens had taken specimens of her knitting around
to ladies who had little children, and had got or-
ders for pretty bright
stockings for them ;
enough to keep Polly
busy all winter. Each
iady had furnished
her own yarn, and
there was a pile of
lovely colored yarns
for her to begin on.

Polly could knit
beautifully, and H I do
believe the prospect
of earning something
to help her mother
was the best present
she had that day.

In the evening,
when I was on my
way to a Christmas
party at Nell's, I
passed by Polly's,
and the curtain was
not quite drawn. I
could n't help just peeping in. There she lay half
up on her elbows, a book in her hand, but not
reading, looking at nothing, with the most lovely,
happy look I ever saw. I 've often wished I had
a picture of her.

We were careful not to neglect Polly after that.
From that day she was the happiest girl I ever saw,
busy from morning to night, knitting or reading,
or repeating poetry, which she learned by the page.
She earned a good deal of money, and she knit so
beautifully that she always had lots of orders ahead.
Now her mother knits too, and takes in some
work, but does not go out any more. I don't know
any happier or nicer place to visit than Polly
Stevens'.

I think that Christmas was the nicest one I ever
had.

NELL BROUGHT THE COFFEE.

I 12

THE KINGDOM OF THE GREEDY.

[DecfJ|

THE KINGDOM OF THE GREEDY.

(By P. J. Stahl.)

Translated by Laura W. Johnson.

Part II.
SOME of the envious or ill-tempered declared it
would be impossible to cook the edifice which
Mother Mitchel had built ; and the doctors were,

MOTHER MITCHEL MAKES HER OFFICIAL ANNOUNCEMENT.

no one knows why, the saddest of all. Mother
Mitchel, smiling at the general bewilderment,
mounted the summit of the tart; she waved her
crutch in the air, and while her cat miowed in his

sweetest voice, suddenly there issued fromjl
woods a vast number of masons, drawing wan
of well-baked bricks, which they had prepay n
secret. This sight silenced the ill-wishers, im
filled the hearts of the Gifl
with hope.

In two days an enor in
furnace was built aroundfl
above the colossal tart, vfl
found itself shut up in an
mense earthen pot. TB
huge mouths, which werto»
nected with thousands of 'Fi4|
ing pipes for conducting B
all over the building, 9
soon choked with fuel, hB
help of two hundred cha aij
burners, who, obeying ; n
vate signal, came forth innj
array from the forest, I
carrying his sack of <M
Behind them stood MBJ
Mitchel with a box of maud
ready to fire each oven SM
was filled. Of course th'.dn
dlings had not been forg<B
and all was soon in a blaB
When the fire was li ltd
in the thirty ovens, whei hfl
saw the clouds of smokcB
ing above the dome, th.: an
nounced that the cookinB
begun, the joy of the ppl
was boundless. Poets ifl
vised odes, and musician-UK
verses without end, in fl
of the superb prince wlite(
been inspired to feed h pW
pie in so dainty a m;B]
when other rulers cou
give them enough, even
bread. The names of M
Mitchel and of the illu
engineer were not forgol
this great glorification,
to His Majesty, they weii
tainly the first of mankind, and their name
worthy of going down with his to the re
posterity.

All the envious ones were thunderstruck.

176.]

THE KINGDOM OF THE GREEDY.

113

ied to console themselves by saying that the work
as not yet finished, and that an accident might
ippen at the last moment. But they did not
ally believe a word of this. Notwithstanding all
ieir efforts to look cheerful, it had to be acknowl-
Iged that the cooking was possible. Their last
source was to declare the tart a bad one, but
' iat would be biting off their own noses. As for
.'dining to eat it, envy could never go so far as
at in the country of the Greedy.
After two days, the unerring nose of Mother
>j itchel discovered that the
rt was cooked to perfection.
Xhe whole country was per-
med with its delicious aro-
a. Nothing more remained
it to take down the furnaces.
* other Mitchel made her
Scial announcement to His
ajesty, who was delighted,
_d complimented her upon
r punctuality. One day was
[11 wanting to complete the
.3nth. During this time the
ople gave their eager help
, the engineer in the demo-
on, wishing to have a h. a nd
the great national work,
d to hasten the blessed mo-
at. In the twinkling of an
£ the thing was done. The
jjLcks were taken down one
' one, counted carefully, and
]5.Tied into the forest again,
I serve for another occasion.
Jhe TART, unveiled, ap-
ired at last in all its maj-
ff and splendor. The dome
LjjjjS gilded, and reflected the
s of the sun in the most
,. J zling manner. The wild-
,■ L excitement and rapture
through the land of the
;edy. Each one sniffed
h open nostrils the appe-
ag perfume. Their mouths
, ered, their eyes filled with
rs, they embraced, pressed
n rh other's hands, and in-
..'ged in touching panto-
.ties. Then the people of
n. and country, united by
B rapturous feeling, joined
ds, and danced in a ring around the grand con-
ion.

Io one dared to touch the tart before the arrival
lisMajesty. Meanwhile something must be done
VOL. IV.— 8.

to allay the universal impatience, and they resolved
to show Mother Mitchel the gratitude with which all
hearts were filled. She was crowned with the laurel
of conquerors, which is also the laurel of sauce, thus
serving a double purpose. Then they placed her,
with her crutch and her cat, upon a sort of throne,
and carried her all round her vast work. Before
her marched all the musicians of the town, dancing,
drumming, fifing and tooting upon all instruments,
while behind her pressed an enthusiastic crowd,
who rent the air with their plaudits and filled it

THE TRIUMPHAL PROCESSION.

with a shower of caps. Her fame was complete,
and a noble pride shone on her countenance.

The royal procession arrived. A grand stair-way
had been built, so that the King and his Ministers

THE KINGDOM OF THE GREEDY.

[Decembi

could mount to the summit of this monumental
tart. Thence the King, amid a deep silence, thus
addressed his people :

"My children," said he, "you adore tarts. You
despise all other food. If you could, you would
even eat tarts in your sleep. Very well. Eat as
much as you like. Here is one big enough to
satisfy you. But know this, that while there re-
mains a single crumb of this august tart, from the
height of which I am proud to look down on you,
all other food is forbidden you on pain of death.
While you are here, I have ordered all the pantries
to be emptied, and all the butchers, bakers, pork
and milk dealers, and fishmongers, to shut up
their shops. Why leave them open? Why indeed?
Have you not here at discretion what you love best,
and enough to last you ever, ever so long ? Devote
yourselves to it with all your hearts. I do not wish
you to be bored with the sight of any other food.

"Greedy ones! behold your TART ! "

What enthusiastic applause, what frantic hurrahs
rent the air, in answer to this eloquent speech from
the throne !

"Long live the King, Mother Mitchel and her
cat ! Long live the tart ! Down with soup ! Down
with bread ! To the bottom of the sea with all
beefsteaks, mutton-chops, and roasts ! "

Such cries came from every lip. Old men gently
stroked their chops, children patted their little
stomachs, the crowd licked its thousand lips with
eager joy. Even the babies danced in their nurses'
arms, so precocious was the passion for tarts in this
singular country ! Grave professors, skipping like
kids, declaimed Latin verses in honor of His Maj-
esty and Mother Mitchel, and the shyest young
girls opened their mouths like the beaks of little
birds. As for the doctors, they felt a joy beyond
expression. They had reflected. They under-
stood. But — my friends ! ■

At last, the signal was given. A detachment of
the engineer corps arrived, armed with pick and
cutlass, and marched in good order to the assault.
A breach was soon opened, and the distribution
began. The King smiled at the opening in the
tart; though vast, it hardly showed more than a
mouse-hole in the monstrous wall. Then turning
to his people, who, seated at long tables, were
stuffing themselves like mad, he whispered in the
ear of his Prime Minister, the first mathematician
of the age:

" The train is fired. How long will it burn?"

"Six weeks, Your Majesty," replied the man of
science.

At this answer, the King stroked his beard
grandly. "All goes well," said he, " for him who
knows how to wait."

Who can tell how long the feast would have

lasted, if the King had not given his command th
it should cease? Once more they expressed th
gratitude with cries so stifled that they resembl
grunts, and then rushed to the river. Never hadi
nation been so besmeared. Some were daubed >
the eyes, others had their ears and hair all stick);
As for the little ones, they were marmalade fro
head to foot. When they had finished their toilc,
the river ran all red and yellow, and was sweeten
for several hours, to the great surprise of all t
fishes.

Before returning home, the people presently
themselves before the King, to receive his co-j
mands.

"Children ! " said he, "the feast will begin ag;a)|
exactly at six o'clock. Give time to wash the dislB'J
and change the table-cloths, and you may oisil
more give yourselves over to pleasure. You sllj
feast twice a day, as long as the tart lasts. Do :Q
forget. Yes ! if there is not enough in this ontla
will even order ANOTHER from Mother Mitchel; m
you know that great woman is indefatigable. Y'lj
happiness is my only aim." (Marks of universal jrrj
and emotion.) " You understand ? Noon, and I
o'clock ! There is no need for me to say, be puis 4 !
ual ! Go, then, my children — be happy ! "

The second feast was as gay as the first, anew
long. A pleasant walk in the suburbs, — first •
ercise, — then a nap, had refreshed their appeta
and unlimbered their jaws. But the King fam|^
that the breach made in the tart was a little smafi
than that of the morning.

" 'T is well ! " said he, " 't is well ! Wait till
morrow, my friends ; yes, till day after to-morrl
and next week J"

The next day the feast still went on gayly ; yea
the evening meal the King noticed some enta
seats.

"Why is this?" said he, with pretended ii
ference, to the court physician.

" Your Majesty," said the great Olibriers, "apw
weak stomachs ; that is all."

On the next day there were larger empty spn
The enthusiasm visibly abated. The eighth
the crowd had diminished one-half; the ninth, thfe
quarters; the tenth day, of the thousand who elf
at first, only two hundred remained ; on the elevi(l&
day, only one hundred ; and on the twelfth — as)
who would have thought it ? — a single one answ
to the call. Truly he was big enough. His 1
resembled a hogshead, his mouth an oven, anc,
lips — we dare not say what. He was known irj
town by the name of Patapouf. They dug o
fresh lump for him from the middle of the tart,
quickly vanished in his vast interior, and he re 1
with great dignity, proud to maintain the hone
his name and the glory of the Greedy Kingdoi

THE KINGDOM OF THE GREEDY.

115

SffMS

MASTLR PATAPOUF.

the next day, even he, the very last, appeared that night from too much tart. Let us draw a veil

lore. The unfortunate Patapouf had sue- over those hours of torture. Mother Mitchel was

ed, and, like all the other inhabitants of the in despair. Those Ministers who had not guessed

ry, was in a very bad way. In short, it was the secret dared not open their lips. All the city

:nown that the whole town had suffered agonies was one vast hospital. No one was seen in the

THE KINGDOM OF THE GREEDY.

[Decemu

streets but doctors and apothecaries' boys, running
from house to house in frantic haste. It was dread-
ful ! Dr. Olibriers was nearly knocked up. As for
the King, he held his tongue, and shut himself up
in his palace, but a secret joy shone in his eyes, to
to the wonder of everyone. He waited three days
without a word.

The third day, the King said to his Ministers :

" What ! Your Majesty, must we eat it all ? '
"You must!" sternly replied the King;
MUST ! By the immortal beefsteaks ! not one
you shall have a slice of bread, and not a loaf sh
be baked in the kingdom, while there remains!
crumb of that excellent tart ! "

"What misery!" thought these poor peopjj
" That tart forever ! "

THE MERE SIGHT OF THE TART M.ADE EVFRYEODY ILL.

" Let us go now and see how my poor people are
doing, and feel their pulse a little.''

The good King went to every house, without for-
getting a single one. He visited small and great,
rich and poor.

"Oh, oh! Your Majesty." said all, "the tart
was good, but may we never see it again ! Plague
on that tart ! Better were dry bread. Your Maj-
esty, for mercy's sake, a little dry bread ! Oh, a
morsel of dry bread, how good it would be ! "

"No, indeed," replied the King. " There is
more of that tart!"

The sufferers were in despair. There was I
one cry through all the town — "Ow ! ow ! ow
for even the strongest and most courageous wel
horrible agonies. They twisted, they writhed, J
lay down, they got up. Always the inexol
colic. The dogs were not happier than their |
ters ; even the)' had too much tart.

The spiteful tart looked in at all the wincl
Built upon a height, it commanded the town,
mere sight of it made everybody ill, and its fcj
admirers had nothing but curses for it now.
happily, nothing they could say or do made il

7 6.]

THE KINGDOM OF THE GREEDY.

117

OW I OW !

ialler; still formidable, it was a frightful joke for

Dse miserable mortals. Most of them buried

:ir heads in their pillows, drew their night-caps

sr their eyes, and lay in bed all day, to shut out

; sight of it. But this would not do ; they knew,

:y felt it was there. It was a nightmare, a hor-

le burden, a torturing anxiety.

[n the midst of this terrible consternation, the

ng remained inexorable during eight days. His

art bled for his people, but

! lesson must sink deep,

it were to bear fruit in fu-

e. When their pains were

■ed, little by little, through

ting alone, and his subjects

mounced these trembling

rds, "We are hungry!" the

ig sent them trays laden

h — the inevitable tart.

'Ah ! " cried they, with an-

sh, "the tart again ! Always

tart, and nothing but the
v t ! Better were death ! "

V few, who were almost fam-
i id, shut their eyes, and tried
1 eat a bit of the detested
) d; but it was all in vain
I hey could not swallow a
luthful.
'At length came the happy

• when the King, thinking

ir punishment had been se-

; enough, and could never
'forgotten, believed them at

gth cured of their greedi-

s. That day he ordered
r - l ther Mitchel to make in one

her colossal pots a super-

ellent soup, of which a bowl was sent to every

ily. They received it with as much rapture as

the Hebrews did the manna in the desert. They
would gladly have had twice as much, but after
their long fast it would not have been prudent.
It was a proof that they had learned something
already, that they understood this.

The next day, more soup. This time the King
allowed slices of bread in it. How this good soup
comforted all the town ! The next day there was
a little more bread in it, and a little soup-meat.

THE HAPPY DAY.

Then for a few days the kind Prince gave them
roast beef and vegetables. The cure was complete.

THE COMPLAINT OF THE STOCKINGS.

[Decemi J

The joy over this new diet was as great as ever
had been felt for the tart. It promised to last
longer. They were sure to sleep soundly, and to
wake refreshed. It was pleasant to see in every
house, tables surrounded with happy rosy faces, and
laden with good nourishing food.

The Greedy people never fell back into their
old ways. Their once puffed-
out, sallow faces, shone with
health ; they became, not fat,
but muscular, ruddy, and solid.
The butchers and bakers re-
opened their shops ; the pastry-
cooks and confectioners shut
theirs. The country of the
Greedy was turned upside down,
and if it kept its name, it was
only from habit. As for the
tart, it was forgotten. To-day,
in that marvelous country there
cannot be found a paper of sugar-
plums or a basket of cakes. It is charming to see
their red lips and their beautiful teeth. If they have
still a king, he may well be proud to be their ruler.

Does this story teach that tarts and pies should
never be eaten ? No ; but there is reason in all
things.

The doctors alone did not profit by this great

revolution. They could not afford to drink wel
any longer in a land where indigestion had becoM
unknown. The apothecaries were no less unhap \i
Spiders spun webs over their windows, and tl I
horrible remedies were no longer of use.

Ask no more about Mother Mitchel. She \sl
ridiculed without measure by those who had adorij

JOY IN THE KINGDOM.

her. To complete her misfortune, she lost her
Alas for Mother Mitchel !

The King received the reward of his wisd
His grateful people called him neither Charles
Bold nor Peter the Terrible, nor Louis the Gr
but always by the noble name of Prosper I.,
Reasonable.

THE COMPLAINT OF THE STOCKINGS.
By Sydney Dayre.

Dear St. Nicholas : Last Christmas we had a Christmas-tree — we always hung up our stockings before. On Christmas momin
of the baby's stockings was gone, and we could n't find it anywhere. But yesterday it turned up in the funniest place. You never
guess where, so I must tell you. It was tucked into one of the pigeon-holes of grandfather's desk. He found it there on Christmas i
ing ; and as he can't see very well, he thought it was a pen-wiper some of us had put there to surprise him. And this letter, directed tL
was in the foot of the stocking. No one can tell how it ever could have got into grandfather's desk ; but you know a great many won
things do happen on Christmas Eve ! — Yours truly, Mav Merripe

I HAVE a piteous tale to tell, — and where, I should like to know,
But to the good St. Nicholas, should a baby stocking go ?
I thought if I told our family wrongs, in good old-fashioned rhyme,
You 'd fix the matter up, somehow, before next Christmas-time.
Perhaps you 're wondering how it is I look so very bright,
All covered up with pretty stripes of red and blue and white ?
Well, when the stockings came last Fall, in brown and navy blue,
Mamma declared, foi baby they would never, never do !
The sober things might answer to be worn by Will or May,

THE COMPLAINT OF THE STOCKINGS. II9

But the dimpled darling Lewie's should glow like a summer's day.
So grandma got her needles out, and began me, so I 've heard ;
And with every stitcb she knit, wove in a smile or loving word.

And how I gather round the cunning feet you ought to see !
Why, the toes are like pink sea-shells, and dimpled is each knee !
I 've hugged the dainty things with a clasp so warm and tight,
That old Jack Frost has never had a chance to take a bite.
But I must hurry on to show how, on last Christmas night,
The stockings of this family received a dreadful slight.
I '11 tell you what my father said — he '11 tell it best, I know,
Though I am getting old myself — (there 's a big hole in my toe).

I heard him sadly groan that night — his name is Gray Lambswool ;

My mother, Mrs. Fleecelined, sighed as though her heart were full.
" Ah me!" he cried, "that Christmas Eve should now be passing o'er,

And I and mine be lying here upon the bedroom floor!

I thought we 'd all be hanging up along the chimney there ;

How wonderful the things we held last Christmas, I declare !

Such gay embroidered slippers, done in beads and Berlin wool,

With meerschaum, studs, and smoking-cap, till every part was full.

My eldest son there, Seal Brown, ought to have his foot this minute

Pressed out of all its comely shape by treasures crowded in it, —

With ball and top, and soldiers with trumpet, sword and gun,
' And everything, besides, a boy would need for Christmas fun.

" And next to him Miss Navy Blue would hang, and proudly hold
A little chain and locket, and a ring of shining gold,
A tiny, tinkling music-box, and, standing over all,
With such fine clothes, and real hair, the very loveliest doll !
And stumpy, dumpy Redstripe would lovingly embrace
A stumpy, dumpy baby, with a smiling rubber face,
A glowing coral necklace, a rattle too, methinks,
And sugar-plums among them, just to fill up all the chinks.
But ah ! 't is hard for stockings to fall on times like these,
When all the world is going mad about its Christmas-trees.
We 've been a faithful family ; I 've served my master well ;
I 've not a darned hole anywhere, as any eye may tell."

So now you see the reason I have spun a yarn so long —

I want to get St. Nicholas to right this fearful wrong ;

I want his prancing reindeer to tear through all the land,

And bring him to each chimney, to fill, with liberal hand,

The stockings blue, red, brown and gray. — the stockings great and small. -

The ribbed, the striped, the plain, the plaid, — the stockings short and tall;

And if you now are weary of the grievances I sing,

Just cry, "Oh, hang those stockings!" — that will be the very thing.

T20

A CLOCK IN THE SKY AT NIGHT.

[DelembeJ

A CLOCK IN THE SKY AT NIGHT.

By Richard A. Proctor.

There are some old churches in England which
have clocks showing the lime with only one hand —
the hour hand. I dare say that it will seem very
strange to active and busy minds in America that
such clocks as these should still continue in exist-
ence. A slumberous place it must be, truly, where
men are content to know time by the hour, and to
take no note of minutes. Or, if that is not really
the way of it, still it must be a strangely backward
world where such clocks, once sufficient for their
purpose, have not yet been replaced by time-
measures better suited to active, business-like folks.
When such clocks were more common, and house-
clocks and watches less used (and probably very
seldom in order), it would have been useful to
know what I am now going to tell you about a
clock in the sky,* though at present the knowledge
will help rather to teach young folks the stars, than
to show them how to learn the time from the stars ;
for the clock I have to describe has only one hand,
and not only so, but that hand goes the wrong way
round, and only once round in a day.

The first step toward a knowledge of the stars
should be the recognition of the pole-star, because
the pole of the heavens being the point round
which all the stars are seemingly carried, so soon
as we know the stars around the pole, we have a
center, so to speak, from which we can pass to
other groups until we know them all. Once known,
the pole-star can always be found by the learner,
supposing he observes the heavens always from the
same station ; for it lies always in the same posi-
tion (or so nearly so that the change can scarcely
be noticed). If, for example, you have once been
shown, or have found out for yourself, that from a
certain spot in your garden, or from a certain win-
dow in your house, the pole-star can be seen just
above a certain chimney or tree, then at any time,
on any night when the sky is clear, if you betake
yourself to that spot, or look through that window,
you will see the pole-star over its accustomed chim-
ney or tree. It is there, indeed, all the time,
whether the sky be clear or cloudy, whether it be
day or night. Not only does a knowledge of the
pole-star give you a known central-point whence to
proceed to others, but it gives you the means of
knowing where lie the cardinal points round the

horizon ; for, of course, when you face the pol
star, the north lies before you, the south behin
you, the east on your right, the west on your left

But to find the pole-star, it is well to begin
the dipper. This well-marked group includes t\\
stars which are called the " pointers," because tht
point to the pole-star. The dipper is so conspic
ous and well-marked a group that it is easily learnt
and cannot easily be forgotten. Although not ve
near the pole, it is yet not so far from it as to ran
very widely over the heavens ; and if you loi
toward the north at any hour of any clear nigl:
you will seldom require many seconds to find tl
familiar set of seven bright stars, though at o
time it is high above the pole, at another close
the horizon, now to the right of the pole, and am
to the left. In England the dipper never sets;
America it partly sets, but still can be recogniz
(except at stations in the most southern State
even when partly below the horizon.

Let us inquire, first, where the dipper is to
looked for, and in what position its stars are place
at various hours all the year round. Of course,
a general sense, the dipper lies always toward t
north. The student, therefore, will not, like " Bi
o' Fredum Sawin'," " w'eel roun' about sou'-wes
to find it. Still, it saves trouble to have soi
idea where and how the group will be place
especially if the night of observation is half clouds
so that all the seven stars are perhaps not seen
once.

The dipper lies low down to the north (as she
at I in Fig. I ) at about six in the evening of Dece
ber 2 1 st. The seven stars are marked, for cc
venience of reference, with the Greek letters
which astronomers know them, namely : a (Alph
/3(Beta), 7 (Gamma), t! (Delta), c (Epsilon), \ (Zet
and ;; (Eta). The two stars a and /3, which fo
the side of the dipper farthest from the hand
are called the pointers, because they point (as I
arrow shows) toward the pole-star marked 1 in I
picture. This star is easily distinguished in t
heavens, because it is much brighter than any
its immediate neighborhood. It is not at the ti
pole of the heavens, which lies where the two era
lines of the picture intersect. Consequently, I
pole-star goes round the pole, though in a v

* We find traces in the writings of old times that the stars were used to show the time. For instance, the "first earner" in SI
speare's :< King Henry IV." (part i., act ii., scene i.) says, "An 't be not four by the day, I '11 be hanged ; Charles' Wain is over the
chimney," — Charles' Wain being the group of seven bright stars which is commonly called in America "the dipper."

A CLOCK IN THE SKY AT NIGHT.

121

Overhead
atP/tiladelphia

>%U t 5

Horizon of ^e*v0r7eans

k 3 J j«/i

yyf — Horizon — of-\ — -Xouisvi/le

Horizon — of—ff'/iilade/phio'

Horizon of -Boston and aZ p/acrs in about -Latitude 42i°-Nbrt/i.
JToTZson of Zond on (J?r?{?) Hes Acre

FIG. I. SHOWING THE VARYING POSITIONS OF THE DIPPER, THE POLE-STAR, AND THE GUARDIANS OF THE POLE, VIZ. AT

I, i, and I, respectively, at 8 P. M. Nov. 22 ; at 9 P. M. Nov. 6 ; at 10 P. M. Oct. 22 ; at 11 P. H, Oct. 6 ; midnight Sept. 21.
II, 2, and II, " at 8 p. M. Feb. 19; at 9 P.M. Feb. 5 ; at 10 P.M. Jan. 21 ; at 11 p. M. Jan. 5 ; midnight Dec. 21.

III, 3, and in, " at 8 P.M. May 21; at 9 P.M. May 8; at 10 P.M. April 23; at 11 P.M. April 8; midnight March 23.

IV, 4, and iv, " at S p. M. Aug. 23 ; at g P. M. Aug. 7 ; at jo P. M. July 22 ; at n p. M, July 7 ; midnight June 22.

f lill circle ; * it is shown in four different positions,
nbered i, 2, 3, and 4 in Fig. 1. The Greek
;er a (Alpha) is assigned to it, because it is the
ha star, or leading star, of the group to which

it belongs. The seven stars of the dipper belong
to the constellation (or star group) called Ursa
Major, or the Greater Bear; while the pole-star
belongs to the constellation called Ursa Minor, or

The actual distance of the pole-star from the pole is about two and a half times the apparent diameter of the moon ; so that the pole-
appears to go round in a circle having a diameter exceeding five times the apparent diameter of the mooo. This is a much smaller
s, however, than most persons would suppose from this description, for the mind unconsciously overestimates the size of the moon,
three stars forming the belt of Orion will afford a very good idea of the range of the pole-star around the pole ; the stars to the right
left of the middle star of the belt representing almost exactly the relative positions of the pole-star on the right and on the left of the
of the heavens. Or the matter may be thus stated : Orion's belt just about measures the distance between 2 and 4, or between 1 and 3,
g. 1. A star placed at the true pole would make, with stars at 2 and 4 (Fig. 1), a set just like the belt of Orion.

122

A CLOCK IN THE SKY AT NIGHT.

[Decembe

the Lesser Bear. Two other stars, also belonging
to Ursa Minor, are shown in the picture, at I, with
their proper Greek letters, /? (Beta) and y (Gamma).
They are called the "guardians of the pole," be-
cause they circle around it as though keeping watch
and ward over the axle-end of the great star-dome.
The best way, perhaps, to remember where the
guardians are to be looked for, is to notice that the
four stars I, e, 6, and /3 of the dipper are nearly in
a straight line, and that if a square be supposed to
be set up on this line, as shown in Fig. 2 (on the
side toward the pole), the guardians lie close to
that corner of the square which is opposite the
pointers. You cannot easily fall into any error as
to the four stars of the dipper, to be used in thus
finding the guardians of the pole, for they are the
only four which lie nearly in a straight line. But
to make assurance doubly sure, notice that the star
I, which lies at one end of the line of four stars,
has a companion close by (as shown in Fig. 2).
Thus we have at one corner of the square the
pointers, at another the double star {, and at the
next corner the guardians.

The dipper, as I have said, is in position I at
about six o'clock in the evening of December 21st.
The pole-star is at this time placed as at 1, a little
above and to the right (or east) of the true pole.
The guardians are at I. The dipper is now at its
lowest ; but, as the picture shows, all the seven
stars are visible at all places in the latitude of Phila-
delphia. The dotted line, however, which repre-
sents the horizon of New Orleans, shows that in
that latitude only one star of the seven can be seen,
namely a,* the pointer nearest to the pole. This
star is so bright, that even as far south as New
Orleans our description of the position of the dipper
will serve as a sufficient guide to find the pole, if
only the Southerner who uses it notices how Fig. 1
presents the stars of the dipper, which for him lie
below the horizon. If this method should not
suffice, then let him look for the dipper two hours
later, by which time all the other stars except \ and
7] will have moved round so far toward position II
as to be visible at New Orleans, — c and 7 lying
almost on a horizontal line very near indeed to the
horizon.

If on any night toward the end of December, you
were to watch the northern heavens from about six
o'clock, when the dipper is as at I Fig. 1, until
about midnight, you would see the dipper move
steadily round till it had reached the position
marked II. The guardians of the pole would by
that time have reached the position II ; and the
pole-star, though it would seem to you to be in the

same position as at the beginning, would in realil
have shifted from 1 to 2. If you still went c
watching, you would find that by about six in tr
morning the dipper would have gone round in tl
direction shown by the arrows until it was in tb
position marked III, high up above the pole an
not very far from the point overhead. If yoi
watch had begun earlier in the evening, say
about five, when the sky is already quite dark (i
December), you would have seen the dipper in
position between I and IV (but nearer to I) ; ar
in the course of the entire night,' that is from evei
ing twilight until daybreak, the dipper would ha\
gone more than half way round, from this las
named position to a position somewhat farthi
round (in the direction shown by the short arrow
than III.

But in order to see the dipper in these differei
positions, and also in that portion of its course (c
either side of IV) which in December it travers

FIG. 2. SHOWING HOW THE GUARDIANS OF THE POLE MAY BE
FOUND WHEN THE DIPPER IS KNOWN.

during the day-time, it is not necessary to keep
long watch upon the group, or to study the heave,
during those " wee sma' hours ayont the twa
wherein the professional astronomer does the be
part of his work. If you come out in the evenii
(say at about eight) once or twice a week on cle
nights, all through the winter half of the year, ar
a little later during the summer months, you w
see the dipper and all the polar groups carried rig
round the pole. For though, speaking generall
it may be said that they complete a circuit once
every day, yet in reality they gain about four mi
utes' motion in the twenty-four hours, and thus g
further on little by little night after night — gai
ing an hour's motion in about a fortnight, tv
hours' motion in a month, twelve hours' motii
(or half the complete circuit) in half a year, un
finally, at the end of the year, they have gainf
a complete circuit.

* This little star is called by country folks in England " Jack-by-the-Middle-Horse," the stars e, g t and n representing the three hon
oi the " wain," or wagon. The small star was a test of eyesight among the Arabians. It is, however, very easily seen. The star
called Mizar. its companion Alcor.

876. J

LEON MATURIN S CHRISTMAS EVE.

123

Thus at eight o'clock on or about November
:2d, the dipper is at I, the guardians of the pole
ire at I, and the pole-star is at 1. At eight o'clock
in or about February 19th, the dipper is at II, the
;uardians are at n, the pole-star is at 2. At the
ame hour on or about May 21st, the dipper is at
II, the guardians are at III, the pole-star is at 3.
Lnd lastly, at the same hour on or about August
3d, the dipper is at IV, the guardians are at IV,
he pole-star is at 4.

It is because of this steady turning motion or
Dtation around the pole of the heavens, that the

stars of the dipper (say, for instance, the pointers)
form as it were a clock in the sky, by which the
astronomers at any rate, though also any one who
is willing to give a little attention to the matter, can
tell the hour within a few minutes on any night in
the year.

A few observations made in this way on a few
nights during the course of the year, will give a
clearer idea of the steady motion of the star-dome
(resulting in reality from the earth's steady rotation
on her axis) than any amount of description either
in books or by word of mouth.

LEON MATURIN'S CHRISTMAS EVE.
By C. F. Jackson.

The snow was falling thickly and steadily, and
le evening shadows were gathering so closely
ound the house that Leon and Annette were
.ad to turn from the window where they had been
ir the last half hour, and nestle down together in
te corner of the big fire-place. There was no
mp or candle in the room, but the large fire of
?at and brushwood sent forth a ruddy glow, which
'ightened everything immediately around it, while
1 occasional leaping flame would suddenly bring
to view some more distant object, and send the
ladows chasing each other into the farthest cor-
>r of the low kitchen.

The pot was boiling over the fire, and Mere
' aturin was walking backward and forward pre-
iring supper.

''See, Leon," whispered Annette, "how funny

andma's cap looks on the wall ! When she goes

er to the cupboard it is quite small, and when

e comes nearer here it grows up, up, half way

er the ceiling. Look, there it is now, just like

e of Maitre Caussin's hay-mows in July ! "

"Yes, and see the spinning-wheel change and

rn as if the fairies were spinning on it ! "

1 "Do they ever, Leon? Perhaps they are doing

'mow. Oh, if we could see them ! "

"You little silly," replied her brother. "Who

:r saw fairies Christmas Eve? If it were mid-

' Timer now ! St. John's Eve is the time for them.

e here, Annette, if you are very good from now

St. John's Eve, — if you do everything I want

a to, — if, if," said Leon, wishing to make as good

1 1 >argain as possible, " if you always drive Blan-

chette home from pasture when I want to play
with George, if you will always get grandmother
the cresses when I don't want to go to the brook
for them, I will show you the fairies on that night;
that is," added the boy, thinking, perhaps, he had
better not promise too much, " I will let you go
with me to the big stones in the middle of the
wood yonder, just at midnight, and there — Maitre
Caussin's Joseph told me so — you will be sure to
see them."

" Oh, Leon, I will do anything for you if you
will but let me see them ! But it is so long to
wait ; perhaps grandmamma knows if one can see
them any other time. Grandmother" (raising her
voice), "do the fairies ever come Christmas Eve,
and do they ever turn spinning-wheels to help
people ? "

"Nay, child, who ever heard of fairies then?"
said Mere Maturin, "and if they did take the
trouble to turn spinning-wheels, it would not be for
idle folk like you ! Come and put the dishes on
table, for the pot is boiling, and it is time we had
supper."

Annette speedily obeyed, and there was no more
talk of fairies for an hour. After that, the dishes
being all washed and put away, and grandmother
seated in the chimney-corner with her knitting, the
children took their places, side by side, on the
hearth opposite to her, and began to plead with
her for some legends and stories, such as they
loved to hear.

Leon and Annette lived in Brittany, in a little
old cottage not far from the sea, and a few miles

124

LEON MATURIN S CHRISTMAS EVE.

[December J

from the town of St. Malo. Their eldest and only
brother, Louis, had gone as a soldier two years
before, and was at Toulon with his regiment. Once
in a great while they heard from him, and his last
letter but one had told them he was married. They
were looking for a letter from him now, for it was
six months since the last one came, and they said :

" Louis will surely send us a message for Christ-
mas."

This Christmas Eve, the father and mother had
gone into St. Malo, to be present at the midnight
mass and Christmas morning service, after which
they were to come home, and the children had
been left with their grandmother. Since sunset,
the snow, which had been gathering overhead all
day, had begun to fall, and was rapidly covering
up the well-beaten road, on which for many weeks
no fresh snow had fallen.

" Tales, tales," said the old woman, " you have
heard them all many times, my children. I have
no new stories for you."

" Then tell us old ones, dear grandmamma ! "

"They say, then, little ones, and I have heard
it ever since I was but half your size, that on the
holy Christmas Eve, when the hour of midnight
strikes, all the oxen and cows and asses can speak
like us human creatures, because they stood by
when the Blessed Mary laid the Holy Babe in the
manger," and the old woman made the sign of the
cross devoutly.

"But is it true, grandma?" said little Annette,
eagerly.

" I cannot say for myself, as I never heard them
speak, child ; but why should not poor brutes have
a voice given them for once for sake of that blessed
night, and that they may praise God ? There was
Antoine," the old woman went on, murmuring to
herself, "sat up on purpose to hear them one
night, and at twelve he went out to the stable, but
the poor fool made such a clattering in undoing
the door, that the beasts in St. Malo might have
heard him through their sleep, so the ass and the
cow were well warned, and never a word would
they speak before him ; and they were wiser than
some folk if they had secrets to talk about, for
everything Antoine heard he went straight and
told it ; and, indeed, I believe he could not have
helped it, if he knew he was to swing for it the
next minute; but he is dead now, like many a one
I once knew. May he rest in peace ! "

"But did you ever know any one else who tried
it," cried both the children at once.

" Only Pierre. Pretty Madeline, old Jacques the
miller's daughter, waited up one Christmas Eve,
and, when midnight drew near, she was too afraid
all at once to stir out in the dark alone for anything
so strange and wonderful, so she sent Pierre, her

cousin. He had heard nothing, he said when hi
came back; but nobody thought that counted fo'j
much, for though Pierre was a clever fellow enough)
and could even read in the newspapers all by hifflj
self, without the priest to help him, everybodl
knew he would n't have heard the church bells,
they had all rung at once and he in the tower,
he were thinking of Madeline ; and that same evenj
ing did n't the miller — Jacques was lame then — as
him to give him his crutch, and put a stick on th
fire, and did n't Pierre put the crutch on the fii
and give Jacques the stick, and Madeline was bi
just in time to pull the crutch out of the flame
and it was scorched ever after. So you see he w;
not much to be depended on, till he marric
Madeline and settled down.

" Madeline was only a goose-girl, but she was
stout, comely maid, with cheeks like roses, ar
Pierre from a boy had always been fond of he
He taught her to read while she was minding tl
geese, and there never was a storm so bitter th
Pierre was n't glad to face it if he could only he
Madeline home with her geese. Ah, they 've ris<
a bit since that day, for Pierre turned out a thrif

fellow, and The saints shield us ! Leo

what was that ? "

" I heard nothing but the night-wind blowing
said Leon, gravely. But Annette clung to h
grandmother, and the grandmother laughed light
to think how slight a thing startled her in her o
days.

The little girl listened for some time longe
while Mere Maturin wandered on, telling old storl
of the people she had known in her youth, q
Leon was strangely silent. A thought was workii
in his brain. Why should not he, that very nigh
find out with his own ears if this we're true?
would not tell Annette, for she might be afraid al
cry or make a noise, and spoil all, and he wou
succeed no better than did Antoine, whom
grandmother knew. So when Mere Maturin si
it was time to go to bed, he undressed, and sa
his prayers, and climbed up to his little mattrd
in the loft. He had grown too big for it, but it \
the best he had, and his sleep was always soun
Grandmother and Annette would soon be aslel
in the room off the kitchen, and Leon lay in bl
watching the faint glimmers and shadows that fl
on the loft stairs from the remains of the fire tl|
burned low in the wide kitchen chimney. Tli
had had a larger fire than usual, for it was vel
cold weather and Christmas Eve, and Mere Mat]
rin had said, " We must be warm to-night, if
are cold all the rest of the winter." He kept I
eyes open for some time, but fell asleep at lal
and started awake again in a sudden fright,
the magic hour had slipped away from him

» a

876. J

LEON MATURIN S CHRISTMAS EVE.

I2 5

11.

■ IIS

sleep, and he would have a whole year to
/ait before he could try his chance again. The
louds had all cleared away, and the moon was
hining brightly in through the diamond-shaped
lanes in the little window. Leon slipped out of
ied and into his clothes, and then softly crept down
he stairs. He could just see the face of the old

lock in the corner, and he was in time. It wanted
■ ve minutes of twelve. He crossed the kitchen so
'jftly that he did not disturb his grandmother and

'iSter, and, unfastening the door, stood alone out
'1 the night. Leon was a brave boy, so no thought
?f fear came to him, but he shivered in the nipping

inter air, and pulled his cap further down over his

ars. He could easily see by the moonlight where
'ie path to the stable ought to be, although it was

covered by several inches of snow, and in a few
minutes he was at the door.

Very softly now, Leon, or Blanchettc will lift her
head and look at you out of her large, gentle brown
eyes, and old Jeanette will move her long ears and
snuff danger near, and you will spoil it all.

So gently he undid the door, so quietly he stole
in and stood in the shadow,
that neither cow nor ass-
could be disturbed, yet surely
something has aroused and
affrighted them both. Leon-
listened breathlessly. Sud-
denly both the animals be-
side him moved uneasily.
Presently, from outside the
stable, came clearly and dis-
tinctly on the night air the
bray of an ass. It made
Leon start more than when
Jeanette answered it from,
within the stable with an-
other bray.

He was only frightened
for a moment, however, and
then he turned and went out
of the door to see who this
midnight visitor could be.
There was nothing in the
yard ; but he crept along
by the fence, and whea
he reached the gate, there,
standing in the moonlight,
was an ass, her head pushed
far over the gate, and her
long ears bent forward, list-
ening for some answer to her
summons. There was a sad-
dle on her back, but no one
on it.

For a moment, Leon
paused. He knew she had
not come there all alone,
but that probably somewhere
along that lonely country
road she had parted from
sese. her burden. The nearest

house was four miles off, and
in a different direction from that by which the
ass had come, for Leon saw her footprints in the
snow. He might have to walk far ere he should
find those whom she had carried, but if he did not
go— if he waited till daylight — it might be too late
for help to reach those whom cold and snow had
perhaps overcome. He opened the gate, then fas-
tened it securely behind him, and gently turned
the ass around. To his surprise she made no

126

LEON MATURIN S CHRISTMAS EVE.

[December

objection, but somewhat wearily retraced her foot-
steps in the snow.

They did not have to go far, however. A few
yards from the house the road turned, and crossed
a little stream where was a bridge ; beyond this
was a hollow, and then came woods. At the
entrance to these woods was one of those way-side
shrines which you often see in France, where was
an image of the Virgin with the infant Saviour in
her arms ; beneath this, on the white snow, lay
something dark, and when she reached it, the ass
stood perfectly still. Leon came up to her, and
stooping down by this dark mass upon the snow,
saw lying there a young woman, unconscious, with
a baby in her arms.

What was the boy to do? His stout arms could
not lift the inanimate form. There was no one but
his grandmother and Annette within call, and they
would be but little help to him. Yet something
must be done. Leon felt her. She was not
quite cold, and the baby, wrapped in the mother's
cloak and clasped to her breast, was still warm.
Leon tried to make the ass kneel down. She did
it readily enough, as if she were accustomed to it,
and understood the need now. Then he laid his
warm cheek against the girl's and breathed into
her lips and called to her, and strove in every way
to rouse her.

She stirred, but did not open her eyes. The
baby, however, awoke and cried. That cry did
more to fully arouse the mother's consciousness
than anything else, and to Leon's joy she mur-
mured, "Hush, my darling!" Then he called
aloud to her, and at last tried to take the baby from
her arms. She opened her eyes then, but half
vmderstandingly, and with great difficulty obeyed
Leon's words when he told her to rise. She could
not stand, but Leon got her upon the saddle, and
putting one arm around her to hold her firmly
there, he guided the ass down the road and over
the bridge to the gate. They arrived there safely,
though many times on the way Leon thought they
would not.

He ran into the house and woke Annette and
his grandmother. It was some time before he
could make them understand, but at last they did.
Fortunately there were still hot embers on the
hearth, and Annette heated a little milk, which
they poured down the poor woman's throat. This
brought her to herself enough for them to lead her
into the house, where the warmth soon revived
her. Leon put more wood on the fire, which soon
gave out a good heat, while Annette and the grand-
mother warmed blankets and put about the woman
and child, and rubbed the mother's cold limbs.
When they had quite recovered, and had partaken
of bread and milk, Mere Maturin would not allow

them to speak, but put them in her own bed am
left them to sleep.

The first red streaks of dawn were seen in thi
eastern sky before Leon had quite satisfied hi:
grandmother and sister on this wonderful advent
ure. Then he went back to bed, and did no
wake till the Christmas sun streamed in at hi:
window, and he heard Annette calling out he
greeting to him from the foot of the stairs.

Their strange visitors slept till quite late in th(
morning, and had not yet appeared when the fathe
and mother came home. You may be sure then
was much to tell and hear about this odd adventun
of Leon's, and then Pere Maturin held up a lette
from Louis, a Christmas letter, which made thi
children dance with joy. In the midst of it all
their visitor came into the kitchen from the inne
room, her baby in her arms, and looking quite
bright again after her rest. She was very small
so tiny that Leon wondered that such a stout bo;
as he was should have had so much trouble in lift
ing her on to the ass, and she looked very youn;
indeed. Then she told them her story.

Her husband was a soldier. He had met her a
Toulon, her native place, and married her there
She had continued to live at her father's till hi
died, leaving her a little money. Her husband'
regiment was ordered to Algeria soon after, and a:
she had no relations in Toulon or anywhere else
he thought it best to send her and her child to hi:
mother in Brittany. He had written home som<
time before he left, and said he knew his fathe
would meet her at St. Malo, as he had requested ir
his letter. But when she reached there after he:
long journey, she did not find him, and, being :
stranger in the place, she thought the best thing
she could do would be to hire an ass, and take thi
straight road to her husband's home. The land-
lord at the inn in the town where she had stoppec
to inquire the way, had told her that she could no
fail to find the house ; but the snow had come or
and hidden the path, and she grew wearied. The)
wandered out of the way many times, sometime;
finding the road, and then losing it again, till, worr
out, she had fallen from the ass right below the
shrine in the road. " When I looked up, anc
saw the gentle face smiling down upon me, 1
thought, " said she, "Heaven would have pity or
me and my baby, and I said my prayers, and had
just fallen asleep, when the good God sent you,
Leon, to wake me. And now, dear friends, I will
not trouble you more ; if you will kindly tell me
where the Pere Maturin lives I will go and find
him, and my Louis and I will bless you always in
our prayers. "

"Pere Maturin! Louis!" they all exclaimed;
and then followed such explaining, and laughing,

76.)

SOME ORIENTAL SPORTS THAT I SAW.

127

d crying, and kissing as never was known before.

h last, when all was quiet, the father read Louis'
:ter to them, and it was the one they ought to
ve received long before, telling them his Marie
is coming to them, and would they love and care

fV her and the baby for his sake ?
Oh, how happy they all were together, and how
:asant that the joy should come to them on
iristmas Day !

When dinner was over, and they had said every-
ng they could think of about this wonderful ad-

'nture, and had admired little Marguerite, An-
tte suddenly exclaimed :

" Leon ! did the ass and the cow speak? "
" I did n't hear them, " said Leon, shaking his
head ruefully; "but the ass did everything but
speak when she looked at me over the gate, and
then took me to Marie."

"Yes," said his mother, "and though there is
nothing in the idle tale to speak of, you may be
sure God led the ass to you, Leon, and taught her
how to make her wants known to you, though it
was not by speech ; and He cared for Marie and
her babe, for the sake of the Holy Child, laid in
His mother's arms in the stable among oxen and
asses that first Christmas Night."

SOME ORIENTAL SPORTS THAT I SAW.

By Fanny Roper Feudge.

'• I SHOULD like see a boy beat me at catching ; or
lan either, as for that," were the boastful words I
'-ird uttered by a twelve-year old lad, as he tossed
i ft two balls at once, and caught them as they
cended, one with each hand. That was eer-
ily very well done ; but let me tell the boys who
d the ST. NICHOLAS of some "catching" that
'iave seen in far-off lands, — catching with the
> ; uth instead of the hands, — and they shall judge
[gther my boastful young friend of the two balls
1 ild be likely to carry off the palm amid all com-
itors.

'"he first time I witnessed these feats of agility
1i at the palace of the King of Siam, where I
1 been dining. His favorite band of gymnasts
e in attendance that day, and he challenged us
>ee their exploits, and then tell him whether our
'ntrymen could do anything more wonderful in
i way of climbing and catching. So he seated
little party on an elevated platform, where we
Id see readily the movements of the actors, and
'i first thing that met our view was a swinging
i 1 ;e attached to two slender poles that were plant-
r perpendicularly in the ground. About twelve
' Js off was another pole, to which was suspended
1 funny hook a silk net purse filled with gold.
■' purse was full forty feet above the ground,
le the stage swung about five feet lower, and was
It swaying to and from the pole that held the
p.5e, by the action of a long rope pulled bv men

standing on the ground. On the stage stood four
men, and as it veered toward the money purse, he
who stood nearest was allowed one trial of his skill
at catching the purse with his mouth. If he suc-
ceeded, the money (about sixty dollars in gold) was
to be his reward, and he might descend, as he had
mounted, by a rope ladder ; when the next one
would take his turn, till all who wished to do so had
made the attempt ; anew purse being supplied each
time one was carried off by the teeth of a victor.

I thought it a fearful risk, and almost held my
breath in dismay ; but everybody around me was
laughing, and the gymnasts themselves did not seem
to think of danger. As easily and naturally as you
would catch a ball tossed toward you by your com-
panion, the first man opened his mouth just at the
right instant, touched the purse with his lower lip
to dislodge it from the peg, and caught the string
between his teeth, just as his time was up, by the
veering away of the stage. Several others followed,
with the same success, each loudly cheered, and
appearing triumphantly happy. Then for one poor
fellow, who failed to catch the coveted prize, came
the usual penalty of being hissed and hooted at by
the crowd ; but worst of all, he had to let go the
stage, grasp the pole to which the purse was
attached, and, with hands and legs entwined, slide
down as best he could to the ground. I thought,
of course, he would fall ; but he let himself down as
readily as a monkey or a squirrel could have done,

128

SOME ORIENTAL SPORTS THAT I SAW.

[Decem

CATCHING THE PL'KSE. (DRAWN BV A SIAMESE ARTIST.)

or even the dan

of a descent

that bare pole.

course there w

only a few seconds of ti

for him to seize the p

as the stage swung aw

and had he halted or h

tated at all, he must im

tably have been dashed

pieces.

A native artist drew
scene for me, but failed
giving an idea of the gr
height of the poles.

In another game,
poles forty feet high
erected five feet apart,
the top of each was a sri
platform sufficient to aft'
standing-room for a sin
man. When the perfoi
ance began, a man stood
one platform with his
upward, and on the ot
stood one in his natural p 1
tion. As soon as the sig
was given, the two ac
changed places and positi
at the same time ; so t
the one who had stood
his head on the platfc
nearest to me, passed
comrade and came down
his feet on the platform
ther off. This excha
was repeated some twe
times or more, without
pause of a single mome
and when these retired,
same feat was repeated
other gymnasts.

Then came a game
which four lances or spe
were placed points upw;
at the four corners of a be
or table, sixteen inches «
and about four feet lo
At regular intervals all
the center, were eight or
shorter spears, jmmedia
over which, with the po
touching his bare back
a man, who in this posii
supported the weight of t

and appeared too crestfallen . at the disgrace he and sometimes four others. These walked, jum
had incurred to care about the loss of the money, and danced upon the body of their prostrate d

SOME ORIENTAL SPORTS THAT I SAW.

I29

1 , Sometimes they turned
I :rsaults, and at last they
I y seated themselves on
ead and knees, called for
.nd drank it, then lighted
lots from a brand which
>f them reached over and
|| in the mouth of the
,rate man, as they all
)ed off together. The
as he lay motionless
the spears, seemed not
el any pain from these
,ig movements, and I
'told that no sign of a
d was ever left. The
it was borne mainly by
heels and palms bent
vard, and the center of
:ty must have been per-
maintained. Occasion-
swords were used instead
;ars, and when this was
they were placed hori-
,ly, with the edges up-
toward the actor's body,
ne of the feats in rope-
ng were odd enough,
dancer always had a
lie wire fastened firmly
his waist, and to this
>ne end of a strong cord
ttached. The other end
string was made fast to
on ring, and through
as passed the rope up-
ich the actor performed
rious feats. He turned
saults, danced, fenced,
it his body into all man-
ludicrous attitudes ; and
astonished us all by
g from the rope and
g about in mid-air, like
;e fish floundering in
v water, the ring and
preventing him from
rig the ground. Then
jew himself back on the
and walked up and down, carelessly fanning
; f with a bunch of feathers which he held in
land. Presently the feathers were thrown
and the actor rushed up and down the rope
inning for a wager, but pausing every now
en to toss a joke or a bon-bon at those near-
him-; and, when we least expected it, he
from his rope and disappeared with a bound.

a£. IV.— 9.

THE PERFORMERS ON THE POLES. (DRAWN BY A SIAMESE ARTIST.)

Next, feats in tumbling and fencing were per-
formed with great dexterity. Some walked on
their hands, others on their elbows, and all were
capable of putting their limbs into attitudes that
seemed, to our Western eyes, equally ludicrous and
impossible. One man defended himself against
half a dozen others, though his only weapon was
a staff about as long and as thick as an ordinary

13°

SOME ORIENTAL SPORTS THAT I SAW.

[DeceJ

yard-stick, while his opponents had short swords to among the gymnasts of our own country. InciJ

use against him. But by his dexterity in parrying it is hard to conceive of gymnastic skill and da I

their weapons, jumping over their heads, and superior to that shown on this occasion. All

occasionally putting his feet on their shoulders, the feats I have mentioned, and many similar o I

THE PERFORMANCE ON THE SPEAR-POINTS. (DRAWN BY A SIAMESE ARTIST.)

and turning a somersault backward, he succeeded
in disarming several, and driving all from the
stage.

You may judge that after witnessing these ex-
ploits, we had to admit to the king that we had
never seen the equals of these Siamese performers

are performed by the bands of trained gyr
belonging to royal and noble Siamese housel
But these performers are never seen else*!
They are regarded as a necessary part of al
man's household, but as not suitable for the ]
tainment of the laboring class.

THE HOUSE OF SANTA CLAUS.

1 3 l

THE HOUSE OF SANTA CLAUS.

(A Christmas Fairy Sirour for Sitnday-sclioots.)

By Edward Eggi.eston.

Arrangement of the Stage.

E stage, shown in the diagram, is about fif-

feet deep by twenty in width in its main por-

It may vary considerably from these dimen-

according to the size of the hall or Sunday-

" \
h h

i x

Front of Stage.

PLAN OF THE STAGE.

room. The room in this diagram is sup-
to be forty feet wide. The stage should
! less than twelve feet in depth nor less than
in width. The portions of the stage repre-
. at B and/" may be on the same level of the
platform, or B may be higher or lower, and
ncline. The beauty of the stage is greatly
ced by surrounding it with a fence of pop-
The upright posts should be bits of lath
en inches high, the lower end nailed to the
if the platform, and the whole wrapped with
; of pop-corn. Then draw two strands of
irn from post to post, to represent the hori-
rails. At /' there should be a gate with
ted arch over the top. This should also.be
l, wrapped with pop-corn. There should
:e strands in the gate and a diagonal brace.
Dp-corn fence is not essential, but it is a great
n to the beauty of the scene, giving the
i weird and fairy-like appearance, and con-
g finely with the dark green behind. At x, x,
' ia.ll Christmas-trees may be planted.
i house, A. is nine feet in length and six in
It should be about six feet high at the
The frame is of studding, and it is first
i with lath nailed six inches or more
Cedar boughs are then so interwoven as
rely cover it. The roof is thatched in the
way. At e there is a chimney made by
ig out both ends of a packing-box, such
sed for shoes. The box is kalsomined or

painted to look like stone;* cleats arc nailed around
this chimney near the top, to imitate ornamental
stone-work. The box is securely nailed to the
timbers of the house, and there is a ladder inside
the house, so arranged that the lad who represents
Santa Claus can put his head and shoulders out at
the top. At b there is a door-way two feet wide,
in which is a door on hinges. Make it an open
frame covered with pink tissue paper. The win-
dow, c, is two feet square and made like the door,
but intersected with strings of pop-corn for sashes.
Over the door-way, b, is a transparency like a tran-
som. It reads " Santa Claus," and is lighted by a
lantern behind. The house should be provided
with a door-bell. Every precaution must be taken
against fire. The house should stand about two
feet from the wall, and the back may be left open.

At a, a, two pumpkin faces illuminated are sus-
pended or put upon any support that may be found
convenient.

At B there should be either a miniature tent or
a dense arbor of evergreens. If the tent is used,
a Chinese lantern may be suspended on the top
outside.

Characters, Costumes, Etc.

Santa Claus should be a boy of fourteen or
sixteen years of age, with good acting qualities,

THE GATE.

especially a sense of drollery. He should have any
appropriate costume, wig, mask, etc. He carries a

1 See "Letter-Box." — Ed.

THE HOUSE OF SANTA CLAUS.

[Dece]

snuff-box, and a red or yellow handkerchief. He
is also provided with a whistle.

The Dwarfs are boys of ten or twelve years of
age. They wear masks and a red tunic of paper-
muslin, stuffed, to give them a hunchback appear-
ance. They carry staffs, little tin trumpets, stoop
as they walk, and speak in a squeaky falsetto.
Their stations are just inside the house, at h, h.
They appear from behind the house in every case
except the very last.

The Fairy Queen should be a little girl of
from six to nine years of age, dressed in gauze, with
wings of the same material. Stripes or stars, or
spangles of gold paper, add to the effect of her
dress. She wears a coronet and carries a wand.

The Committee should consist of three girls
in ordinary dress. They are represented by X.,
Y. and Z. in the following dialogue, but their real
names should be used instead of the letters. Z.
should be a rather small girl.

Preliminary Arrangements.

The superintendent or pastor conducts the intro-
ductory exercises from some point in front of the
stage. No one must be seen on the stage until
the dialogue begins.

At the time of beginning, the house, A, conceals
Santa Claus and his two dwarfs, and a grown per-
son who has charge of the lights and who acts as
prompter. There is no light on the stage except
that in the transparency over the door, and that in
the pumpkin faces. There are a large number of
tapers or lamps inside the house, carefully arranged
to avoid the danger of fire. These are not lighted
until the signal is given in the dialogue. The
fairy queen is concealed in her bower at B, with
some one who has charge of her, and an automatic
music-box, which sits upon the floor of the plat-
form, wound up and ready to be started at the
proper time. The committee of girls sit in the
audience, and not together.

Dialogue.

After appropriate introductory exercises, a teacher
rises in his place and speaks in substance as fol-
lows :

Teacher. Mr. Superintendent, I see some very
pleasant decorations here, but no presents or re-
freshments for the scholars. I move that a com-
mittee of three be appointed to go up to Fairyland
and inquire of Santa Claus. I would like to know
why this Sunday-school has been left out.

Another teacher. I second that motion.

[Superintendent puts this question to vote, and
declares it carried, in due form.

Superintendent. I would appoint — let me see —
girls are better at coaxing than boys, I think — I will

appoint X., Y. and Z. [calling the girls by
real names'] , who will please come forward.

[X., Y. and Z. rise from their places in I
several classes, and come forward l\
superintendent.

Superintendent. Girls, you see we are witl
any candy or anything of the sort for our schcl
Old Santa Claus has forgotten us. He nevel
so before. Now I want you three to proceJ
Fairyland and see if you can find him. Telll
we must have something. Don't come down I
out something. We can't have all these chi I
disappointed.

[ The committee proceed by the steps to the s

They stop to examine the first pup

face.

Z. What a strange face ! Wonder who it i

}'. One of Santa's tricks, I suppose.

X. They do say that he 's full of fun Bu
must be his house. Let 's find the door.
proceed to thefro?it.] Here it is.

J'. Is n't it 'cute ? I 'd like to live here.

Z. And play dolly-house ?

X. Here 's a door-bell. Santa Claus has a
latest improvements, I declare.

Y. Ring it.

Z. No, don't ; I 'm afraid.

X. Pshaw ! Santa never hurts anybody,
you see his name over the door? [Rings.]
a pause.] I wonder he don't answer. May
is n't at home.

Y. Gone sleigh-riding, as sure as I live !

Z. I guess he's gone to bed. Maybe his
ma would n't let him sit up late.

X. Let 's look around, and see what we cai
You two go around that side, and I '11 go a
this. See if you can 't find him in behind tl
that 's hanging up there.

[X. goes to the left, around the house.

• Y. a?id Z. go around to the right. Th,
ceed timidly to the back of the house
sight of the audience, whereupon the
blow sharp blasts upon their horns, a
girls all rush back to the front of the I

X. I 'm so scared !

Y. and Z. Oh, dear ! I'raso scared !

X. What could it be? Guess old Santa,
made that noise just for fun. I wish the si
tendent had come himself, or sent some of th

]'. I '11 bet the boys would run from that
Don't you ?

X. Yes. Boys never are as brave as gir'l
how. But let's go back again, and see wha|
is there.

Z. I 'm afraid.

X. Well, you stay here, and Y. will go th
and I will go this wav.

THE HOUSE OF SANTA CLAUS.

133

X. again goes to the right, Y, to the left. They
proceed more timidly than before to the rear
of the house, disappearing behind it. The
dwarfs blow their horns, the girls re-appear,
< crying out in alarm, and the dwarfs run
out after them. The girls hurry back to the
front of the house, followed by the dwarfs —
one coming routid one end of the house, the
other round the other. They speak in high,
squeaky tones.

fst Dwarf. What do you want ?

-ond Dwarf. What are you doing here ?
We want Santa Claus. But we did not know

were two Santa Clauses.

[ The dwarfs laugh long and loud.

'■st Dwarf. We are not Santa Clauses. We

le dwarfs that take care of Santa Claus's store-

s, full of goodies and presents.

ond Dwarf. But there 's nothing left to take

of now. Santa 's given away all he had this

tmas.
But we must see old Santa. Our Sunday-

1 has been left without anything, and we want
good old Claus himself.

st Dwarf. But you can't. He 's asleep.

ond Dwarf. He was out all night last night,

ow he 's tired to death and sleeping like a top.

der would n't wake him.
But we must see him.

and Z. Yes, we must.

ond Dwarf . If you'd been riding over roofs

;ht

st Dwarf. And climbing down chimneys

ond Dwarf. And filling stockings

st Dwarf. And Christmas-trees

ond Dwarf. And climbing up chimneys

st Dwarf. And getting your hands and face

;r soot

ond Dwarf. And driving reindeer, — they do

h Dwarfs. I guess you 'd be sleepy too.
iBut we must have something for the chil-

ind Z. We must have something.
it Dwarf. There is n't a thing left.
ond Dwarf. Not a thing.
What will the superintendent say ?
What will the children say ?
What will the infant class say?
.And what will the deacons say?
md Z. Yes, what will the deacons say ?
'1 Dwarfs. Deacons ! Oh, my ! Ha ! ha !
The dwarfs now give a blast apiece, and re-
treat into their hiding-places.
Well, I 'm going to wake up old Santa Claus.
Way be he '11 be cross.

X. But we must have something. [Rings.'] I
wonder he does n't answer.

Z. Ring louder.

.V. Well, here goes. [Rings three or four times.]
[Santa Claus, appearing at the top of the chim-
ney, blows his whistle.

X. Y. and Z. Oh. dear!

Santa Claus. Who's there? Who rang my bell,
I 'd like to know? Pity if I can't sleep Christmas
Night, when I 'm tired to death. Who 's there, I
say ?

X. Oh, you dear old Santa Claus ! Don't be
angry. Some of your little friends have come to
Fairyland to see you. Come down.

Santa Claus. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Some of my little
friends come to see me ! Well, well ! [Blows his.
whistle.] Light up the house, fairies, light up the
house. [ Whistles again, and then descends the
chimney and re-appears at the front door. The
house is lighted within.] How do you do, girls?
how do you do ? [Shakes hands all round, and
then, with great deliberation, takes a pinch of
snuff.] Well, I 'm glad to see you. What can I
do for you ?

A". Why, you see, Santa Claus, our Sunday-
school is left without anything this Christmas.

Santa Claus [sneezes and uses his bandana].
What? You don't tell me so? What 's the name
of your school?

X. The Sunday-school.

Santa Claus. Oh, yes ! and your superintend-
ent is Mr. ? I know him, like a book. I 've

filled his stockings many a time when he was a
little fellow. I don't know how I came to miss that
school, But you see I 'm getting old and forgetful.

]'. How old are you, Santa?

Santa Claus. O, now! Do you think I'd tell
you that ?

Z. You must be as old as the Centennial.

Santa Claus. Pshaw ! I used to fill George
Washington's stockings when he was a little boy.

V. No ! Now, did you ?

Santa Claus. Of course I did.

I'. What did you put in them ?

Santa Claus. What did I put in little Georgie
Washington's stockings? Well, now. that's more
than a hundred years ago, and an old man's mem-
ory is n't strong. I can't remember but one thing.

A". What 's that ?

Santa Claus. A hatchet.

Y. Oh, my !

Z. That same little hatchet ?

Santa Claus. The very same little hatchet.
[Laughs.] But I did not give him the cherry-tree.

A". Yes, but we must have something for oui
school, good Santa Claus.

Santa Claus. But you can't. I 've given away all

134

THE HOUSE OF SANTA CLAUS.

[Decei

I had, and turned the reindeer out on the mount-
ains to pasture, and the times are so hard that I
can't afford to hire a livery team.

X. Yes, but we must have something.

V. Yes, we must, dear old Santa.

Z. Yes, indeed.

Santa Clans [takes snuff and sneezes}. Well,
what is to be done ? How many scholars have you
got this year ?

X. About .

Santa Clans. So many ? Why, you must be
growing. I hope you have n't any Christmas bum-
mers among them — folks that come to Sunday-
school to get something to eat. I hate that kind.

V. I don't think we have many of that sort.

Santa Clans. Well, I always did like that school,
and now I 've gone and forgotten it. I wish some-
thing could be done. [Blows his whistle long and
lond, and shouts :] Dwarfs ! here ! Drako, where
are you? Krako, come! Wake up! [Whistles
again.} [Enter dwaifs, each blowing his horn.

Santa Clans. Now, my little rascals, what have
you got for the Sunday-school ?

Both dwarfs [bowing very low]. Nothing, my
lord.

Santa Clans [takes snnff and sneezes}. I don't
see that I can do anything for you.

.V. But we cannot go back without something.
The children will cry.

Santa Clans. Dwarfs, go and look again.

[ They go back behind the house as before.
After a time they re-appear.

First dwarf. We cannot find a thing.

Second dwarf Not one thing.

Santa Clans [takes snnff]. Well, my little friends,
this is very embarrassing — very — but I have n't a
thing left.

.V. But we can't go back. What will the super-
intendent say? We must have something.

}". Something or other.

Z. Yes, something.

Santa Clans. I '11 go and see myself. [Exit into
honse. After a considerable delay re-enters.] Yes,
I find a box of candy, nuts, and pop-corn in the
closet.

X., Y. and Z. Candy, nuts, and pop-corn !
Good !

Santa Clans. What have you got to put the
things in ?

A". Why wc have n't got anything.

Santa Clans. Well, then, the children will have
to take off their stockings and let me fill them.

A"., Y. and Z. Oh, Santa Claus ! we could n't,
such a cold night as this.

Santa Claus fakes snuff, looks perplexed, walks
abont the stage]. Well, I don't know what to do.

X. Oh dear !

Y. Oh dear!

Z. Oh dear ! dear ! dear !
Santa Clans [starting up]. Now I have it.
X. Have what ?
Santa Claus. An idea.

Z. An idea? [Addressing X.] What 's an 1
Can you put candy into an idea ?

A". Be still, Z. Let 's hear what Santa CI;
idea may be.

Santa Claus. I know who will help me ov
this trouble. There 's my friend the Fairy Qi!
.V. The Fairv Queen !
V. Oh, my ! '
Z. Goody ! goody ! goody !

[Santa Clans blows three blasts on his wi
and listens. The music-box in the
bower begins to play.
Santa Claus. Listen ! She 's coming !
A*. Fairy music.
V. and Z. Sh-h !

[ The fairy comes down from B, skipping

reciting or singing:

In the secret rocky dell,

There the fairies love to dwell ;

Where the stars on dew-drops glance,

There the fairies love to dance.

Both dwarfs [bowing to Santa Claus]

Fairy Queen, my lord !

Santa Claus [bowing]. Hail, Queen of the Fa
A'., Y. and Z. [bowing]. Hail, Queen o
Fairies !

Fairy Queen [bowing]. Hail, Santa C
Hail, little friends !

Oh, stocking-filler, Santa Claus,
I heard you whistle — what 's the cause
You rough and shaggy children's friend
Why did you for a fairy send ?
Santa Claus [taking snuff]. Why, you see, 1

a Sunday-school forgotten, hundred chi

I want to give them something: But they ha
got anything to put it in.
Fairy Queen. How would fairy stockings
White or black or pink or blue ?
A". Fairy stockings !
]'. Oh, my!

Z. Goody ! goody ! goody !
Fairy Queen [waving her hand toward fi]
Whatever Santa Claus ?hall say,
That let Fairyland obey.
Santa Claus [entering the house and blowi.
whistle.] Fill up the stockings, fairies; fill u
stockings.

[ The dwarfs enter, this time by the from\
and return carrying between them a
full of little pink tarlatan stockings
with candy, nuts, etc., which are the.
tributed to the children.

THE GOOD-NATURED BEAR

135

THE GOOD-NATURED BEAR.
By Isabella Valancv Crawford.

ITTLF. Nona and her
mother were walking
together through the
wood on their way
home from market.
The wood was a wild,
lonely place enough,
but that was not the
reason why Nona sud-
jag" denly turned, ran back

*fn iCpPsSK, * to h er mol; her's side,

and clutched her gown
with a frightened air.
No, it was because Ger-
stein, the huntsman,
had become visible in
a side-path.

Why do you always run away from Gerstein ?

5 a good, kind fellow," said the mother.

Oh, no, mother ! he cannot be good, he is so

dfully ugly, and has a hump on his back,"

I'ered Nona, shuddering.

His hump is not his fault ; the good God gave it

"said the mother severely. " And do you sup-
that only handsome and straight people are

ous and respectable ? "

Dna felt ashamed, but she nodded her little

That shows what a silly child you are," went
ne mother, " silly and thoughtless, too. When
are older and wiser, you will see your mistake,
discover that ugly forms often cover kind hearts,
li that a beautiful person is sometimes the cloak
ilfcad nature. Now you are but a child and we

forgive you for being foolish."
<j)na shook her short golden curls and looked
nvinced. Gerstein had now disappeared, so
ran forward gayly and without fear, till the
Is were passed, and they neared the brook and
mill, close to which was her home, for Nona
die miller's little daughter.
Ho, ho ! " cried an elf as the mother and child
■d out of view. " So you don't believe in ugly
;le, fraulein Nona? And you think all pretty
le are good, do you ? Just give me the chance,
I'll show you the difference," And the elf
' ;d his legs together, and doubled himself up in
iig fit of chuckling laughter which sounded
■ . igh the wood like the clink of tiny castanets.
1 Vhat are you laughing at, friend Greenjacket ? "
1 a doe who, with her fawn beside her, was

cropping the grass close to the bough on which the
elf sat astride, swinging to and fro.

" At the folly of a mortal child," responded the
elf. " Not the first one I have laughed at either.
Mortal children are uncommonly silly. This little
fool now-, because she happens to be pretty herself,
imagines that every one who is not pretty must be
wicked. Ho! ho! ho!"

" Dear me," sighed the doe, raising her beauti-
ful head with a sniff. " Lightfoot," turning to the
fawn, " I hope, dear, you have more sense than
that, young as you are."

'• Oh, yes, mamma," said the fawn. " I thought
the wild cat we saw was so pretty, you remember,
till you told me what a cruel beast it is. Now I am
wiser."

" I '11 teach her a lesson," said the chuckling elf,
balancing himself on his thumbs, and flourishing
his legs. Then he nodded to the doe, and with a
rapid movement vanished into a crack in the
ground.

Nona had no idea that the creatures of the forest
were discussing her thus. She was a good, helpful
child in spite of the small flaws of character which
we have seen ; and having many things to do about
the house, it was several days after this conversation
with her mother before she again walked in the
wood. This time she went alone. The forest had
a bad reputation among the country people, who
considered it the home of sprites, dwarfs, goblins,
and other unearthly beings. But Nona had lived
close to it all her life, and was not in the least afraid.
She had never seen a goblin, and did not believe
there were any in the wood. So she tripped gayly
along the shady paths, gathering flowers, and sing-
ing a little song so sweetly that the birds flew
after, perching on way-side trees, and joining their
shrill pipes to the melody of her voice till the leafy
aisles rang with the noisy concert.

Thus Nona wandered on. Hour after hour
passed ; more birds, more flowers, more distance
measured by the busy feet, till suddenly the sun
dropped out of sight, the shadows of the trees
mingled into one, and Nona aroused as from a
dream, to find herself in a new and strange place
which she did not recognize at all.

She was not frightened at first ; it seemed as
though it must be easy to return to the accustomed
path, but when moment after moment went by, each
bringing fresh bewilderment, deeper twilight, she
lost courage. To and fro she ran; searched this

I 3 6

THE GOOD-NATURED BEAR.

[Decem

way, that. All was of no use. At last she sat down
on a moss-covered log, and began to cry. The wind
rose and made strange sounds in the boughs above ;
her sobs echoed through the lonely wood, and every
now and then a queer noise as of soft chuckling
laughter mingled with these echoes, and perplexed
her. Her eyes were too dim with tears to see where,
not far off, an odd little sharp face, surmounted by
a pointed cap, was poked from beneath a grass tuft
to watch her movements. It was naughty Green-
jacket, who, having led Nona into this trap, was
enjoying his success.

Presently the moon rose, and Greenjacket drew
in his head, afraid of detection. The stars came
out in the sky, and twinkled in a friendly manner,
which was cheering. Then the moon reached down
a long ray like a hand, touched Nona's hand, and
seemed to draw her along. She went for a few
paces, then paused affrighted, for a small figure
stopped the way, and a keen little voice said, " This
is the path, Nona, I '11 guide you."

" Oh, dear, what is it ? " she gasped.

" This way," repeated the voice ; and Nona fol-
lowing quite bewildered, Greenjacket led her down
a narrow path beset with brambles, which plucked
and caught at her dress as though they wished to
detain her. Suddenly the path ended in a great
rock in which was a black, gaping cave-mouth.

''Oh, what is that? Why did you bring me
here ? " cried Nona.

" It is the cave of Bruin the bear. He is the
ugliest bear in the wood, so you can fancy how bad
he must be," replied the mocking sprite. " Ho,
Bruin ! Come out of your house and see what a
nice little tidbit I've brought you."

With these words, the fairy vanished, while Nona,
with a moan of despair, sank on the ground, sob-
bing to herself, "What shall I do? what shall I
do?"

" Ugh ! ugh ! " growled a deep voice from the
depths inside. ''Who is that? Ugh! ugh!"

Nona's heart stood still with fear as she heard a
heavy footstep approaching, and saw the red glare
of a torch. Presently out of the cave-mouth came
a huge black bear, lumbering on his clumsy toes,
and growling dreadfully. Another bear followed,
carrying in his paws a torch which he held respect-
fully to light the big bear along.

" Ho, ho ! " said the big bear. " Who have we
got here, I should like to know ? " and he put his
nose so close that Nona thought he was going to
eat her at once, and shivered with fright.

" You are cold," said the bear, misunderstanding
this motion. " It is a chilly night, but inside my
house you '11 find it nice and warm. Come in,
come in, you 're just in time for supper."

"Oh dear! he means me. 1 am the supper,"

thought Nona, and she began to cry bitterly, mi
to the surprise of the kind old bear.

" Heyday ! " he exclaimed. " What 's all tl
I never saw such a child for crying. Come in
warm yourself, and let me see if I can't find soi
thing you can fancy to eat."

" Don*t you eat little girls ever ? " inquired No
still drawing back.

"Little girls! Nonsense! They're not g
to eat. We like potatoes and ground-nuts m
better," said Bruin, and Nona, quite re-assurec
his tone, resisted no longer, but took his paw, wl:
he offered politely, and let him lead her into
cave. It was light inside. A big fire burned
the ground, over which hung pots and kettles, fi
which issued all sorts of savory smells. But N
shuddered a little as she perceived, seated round
crimson fire, a number of strange and ugly cr
ures, who all rose and saluted as she entered \
the bear.

There were brown elves no bigger than a m;
thumb, with spindle legs and green, shining e:
There were dwarfs with heads like pumpkins,
bodies as thin and wiry as that of a daddy-lc
legs ; hairy creatures who carried brooms in
hands ; moon-faced goblins, sprites, wrapped
green little sheets ; and tiny men in green, an
with canes tipped with bee-stings. All of tl
bowed and smiled pleasantly as they made n
for Nona beside the fire, and after a few min
she ceased to be afraid, so easily do we accus
ourselves to what is amiable and harmless t
when it takes a hideous form.

The pots and pans held some odd food iv|
looked unlike anything Nona was used to eat,
one of the bears supplied her with a bowl of
milk and a honey-comb, both of which articles
knew all about. So the supper passed off me
with her as with the rest.

Supper ended, the company remained by
fire conversing pleasantly. Not a cross word
spoken by any one. The very ugliest of the i
lins seemed to have the wish to be agreeable. N
saw an elf with spider-claws get up to offer his
to a little dwarf whose corner was chilly,
noticed that in spite of his gruff voice and clu
movements, the big bear was the life of the p:
and seemed to have but one wish, that of mal
all about him comfortable and at home. She be
quite to love the old fellow with his shaggy 1
and blunt muzzle, and when he asked her to
them a song, she made no objections, but lifted
voice and sang even more sweetly than when
afternoon she had charmed the birds. The b
and all the assemblage were delighted, and -beg
for another and another, till Nona had finishei
the songs she knew.

THE GOOD-NATURED- BEAR.

137

After that the big bear
ing, which ran as follows :

himself volunteered a

' Though I 'm a rough old fellow,

With a shaggy coat,
With a voice which comes like thunder

From my wide, red throat,
With little eyes and fishy,

And a pair of great brown paws
Finished and ornamented

By strong, sharp claws.
Although I 'm very ugly

allowed to light Nona home, so they trimmed their
glow-worm lamps, and the good old bear, placing
her on his back, trotted through the woods in the
direction of the mill. The elves flew beside, amus-
ing themselves with all sorts of droll pranks,
pinching the squirrels as they lay asleep in their
nests, wakening the birds, and rousing the dream-
ing owl on the bough by a crack and a loud whoop
in his ear. Some of the gentler ones filled Nona's
basket with wood-flowers wet with dew ; and one

DRt'tN LEADS NO

If you judge me by my shell,
Still my heart is kind and tender,

And I love all things well.
And there 's a good old saying,

Admit it friends and foes,
That only he is handsome

Who always handsome does."

Though Bruin's voice was rough as his coat, this
igwas much applauded by the company, and he
s begged to favor them with another, which he
. Then a great clock struck, and it was time
the party to break up.

little darling brought her a rose-cup in which were
cuddled two tiny butterflies, side by side. So they
went along.

As they gained the edge of the forest, a horn was
sounded close to them, and Bruin set Nona hastily
down on the ground.

'' Here we part." he said, ''for that is the horn
of Gerstein. the huntsman. And a wise bear will
keep out of his way, though he 's a good fellow and
a kind one. Good-bye, dear Nona. Don't forget
your friends, the bears, and remember [here

138

THE TRUE STORY OF A DOLL.

[December

Bruin's voice grew impressive] , remember that an
ugly creature may have as kind a heart, and be as
worthy of regard, as a handsome one."

Nona blushed deeply and felt abashed, for she
now understood that her foolish words had been
overheard, and that the bear wished to give her a
lesson.

" Good-bye. You Ye all been so good," she fal-
tered ; and even as she spoke, Bruin and the elves
vanished, and she stood alone in the forest.

Not alone for long, however. In another moment
Gerstein broke through the boughs, and the joyful
smile which lit his face when he saw her, made him
seem almost beautiful.

" Here is the dear little maiden," he cried.

" Well, there will be joy at the mill. Thy mothc
has wept much, Nona ; thy father has searched al
night, but now all will be forgotten, for thou ar
safe, praise be to God."' Then he lifted Nona in hi
strong arms, and as she clung to his rough shouldc
she thought of the good bear, and it seemed to he
that Gerstein was of kin to him, strong and ugh
but kind of deed and tende 1 - -,iTieart.

Ever after that day she loved Gerstein. Ant
when her mother saw her run to meet him, ant
jump for joy at the sound of the horn which told o
his coming, she would smile and say:

" Thou art grown wiser, Nona. I told thee on
day that so it would be. Dost thou not remember
It was the day we walked together in the wood."

THREE LITTLE BOYS ON A SPRING-BOARD,
JUST GETTING READY TO FLY ;

ONE, TWO, THREE ! AND NOW YOU CAN SEE
THOSE THREE LITTLE SPECKS IN THE SKY.

THE TRUE STORY OF A DOLL.

By Rebecca Harding Davis.

It is a single little doll, laid away by itself in a
box — a cheap china doll, such as you buy for a few
cents, but dressed in a gay slip, with lace ; the sew-
ing on the dress very bad indeed — in some places
the stitches long and gaping. I want to tell the
readers of St. NICHOLAS the story of the doll and
the sewing on it.

A year ago, a young girl, one of the teachers in
a school in a great city, bade good-bye to the chil-
dren and went home. The children laughed a

great deal, and the story went about how that Mi;
Nelly was going to be married soon, and was goin
home to learn to keep house.

Nelly was one of the merriest girls in the work
In school or at home, everybody tried to sit ne;
to her, to hear her laugh. Nobody was 'ever s
friendly or so full of life, they said. But she wi
not strong ; and when she went home, instead c
learning to keep house, she grew thinner an
weaker day by day, while the doctors stood hel;

i8 7 6.]

THE PETER KINS CHRISTMAS-TREE.

!39

lessly looking on. The marriage was put off again
and again. At last she could not leave her room.
Yet still people tried to come close to her ; the
laugh was always ready on her lips, and the big
blue eyes grew more friendly with each fading day.
The valley of the shadow of death was sunnier to
her than life is to most people. She held the hands
of all her friends as she went through it, and the
best Friend of all was close beside her.

It began to be noticed, however, that she was
anxious to sew or knit all the time, to make some-
thing for little children — soft, white little shirts, or
baby's socks. It may be that the thought of a
little child which ne,ver should rest on her own
bosom was the tenderest memory in the world she
was leaving. In the city where she lived there is
a hospital for sick children, in which there are
many " memorial beds " given as legacies by dying
women, or in remembrance of them by their friends.
Nelly had no money to endow a memorial bed, but
her thoughts were busy with the sick babies.

" I will dress a box of dolls," she said, " so that
each can have one on Christmas morning."

They gave her the doll, and scraps of silk and
lace, and she worked faithfully at it with her trem-
bling fingers.

'■ I will have them ready," she would say.

I!ut it seemed as if she would not have even one
ready, she was forced so often to lay it down. One
September night she was awake all night, and by
dawn made them wash and dress her and give her
her work-box and scissors.

By noon the doll was dressed, and she laid it
down, smiling.

An hour or two later, they told her that the end
was near. " She kissed them all good-bye. Her
face was that of one who goes upon a pleasant
journey ; and, holding her mother's hand, she
closed her eyes and went away.

There is the little doll, alone in its box. I
thought if each little girl who reads this story in
St. Nicholas would dress a doll and send it to a
poor child in some asylum or hospital on Christmas
morning, that Nelly would surely know of it, and
be glad that she and her loving fancy had not been
forgotten.

THE PETERKINS' CHRISTMAS-TREE.

By Lucretia P. Hale.

PRETTY early in the autumn the Peterkins began
to prepare for their Christmas-tree. Everything
was done in great privacy, as it was to be a surprise
to the neighbors, as well as to the rest of the family.
! Mr. Peterkin had been up to Mr. Bromwich's wood-
lot, and, with his consent, selected the tree. Aga-
memnon went to look at it occasionally after dark,
and Solomon John made frequent visits to it, morn-
ings, just after sunrise. Mr. Peterkin drove Eliza-
beth Eliza and her mother that way, and pointed
furtively to it with his whip, but none of them ever
spoke of it aloud to each other. It was suspected
:hat the little boys had been to see it Wednesday
"ind Saturday afternoons. But they came home
with their pockets full of chestnuts, and said nothing

ibout it.
At length Mr. Peterkin had it cut down, and

jrought secretly into the Larkins's barn. A week
or two before Christmas, a measurement was made

>f it, with Elizabeth Eliza's yard-measure. To Mr.
3?eterkin's great disma; , it was discovered that it
: vas too high to stand in the back parlor. This

act was brought out at a secret council of Mr.

and Mrs. Peterkin, Elizabeth Eliza, and Aga-
memnon.

Agamemnon suggested that it might be set up
slanting, but Mrs. Peterkin was very sure it would
make her dizzy, and the candles would drip.

But a brilliant idea came to Mr. Peterkin. He
proposed that the ceiling of the parlor should be
raised to make room for the top of the tree.

Elizabeth Eliza thought the space would need to
be quite large. It must not be like a small box, or
you could not see the tree.

" Yes," said Mr. Peterkin, " I should have the
ceiling lifted all across the room ; the effect would
be finer."

Elizabeth Eliza objected to having the whole ceil-
ing raised, because her room was over the back
parlor, and she would have no floor while the
alteration was going on, which would be very awk-
ward. Besides, her room was not very high now,
and if the floor were raised, perhaps she could not
walk in it upright.

Mr. Peterkin explained that he did n't propose
altering the whole ceiling, but to lift up a ridge

140

THE PETER KINS CHRISTMAS-TREE.

[December,

across the room at the back part where the tree
was to stand. This would make a hump, to be sure,
in Elizabeth Eliza's room ; but it would go across
the whole room.

Elizabeth Eliza said she would not mind that. It
would be like the cuddy thing that comes up on
the deck of a ship, that you sit against, only here
you would not have the seasickness. She thought
she should like it for a rarity. She might use it
for a divan.

Mrs. Peterkin thought it would come in the worn
place of the carpet, and might be a convenience in
making the carpet over.

Agamemnon was afraid there would be trouble
in keeping the matter secret, for it would be a long
piece of work for a carpenter ; but Mr. Peterkin
proposed having the carpenter for a day or two, for
a number of other jobs.

One of them was to make all the chairs in the
house of the same height, for Mrs. Peterkin had
nearly broken her spine, by sitting down in a chair
that she had supposed was her own rocking-chair,
and it had proved to be two inches lower. The
little boys were now large enough to sit in any
chair ; so a medium was fixed upon to satisfy all
the family, and the chairs were made uniformly of ,
the same height.

On consulting the carpenter, however, he insisted
that the tree could be cut off at the lower end to
suit the height of the parlor, and demurred at so
great a change as altering the ceiling. But Mr.
Peterkin had set his mind upon the improvement,
and Elizabeth Eliza had cut her carpet in prepara-
tion for it.

So the folding-doors into the back parlor were
closed, and for nearly a fortnight before Christmas
there was great litter of fallen plastering, and laths,
and chips, and shavings ; and Elizabeth Eliza's car-
pet was taken up, and the furniture had to be
changed, and one night she had to sleep at the
Bromwichs', for there was a long hole in her floor
that might be dangerous.

All this delighted the little boys. They could
not understand what was going on. Perhaps they
suspected a Christmas-tree, but they did not know
why a Christmas-tree should have so many chips,
and were still more astonished at the hump that
appeared in Elizabeth Eliza's room. It must be a
Christmas present, or else the tree in a box.

Some aunts and uncles, too, arrived a day or two
before-Christmas, with some small cousins. These
cousins occupied the attention of the little boys,
and there was a great deal of whispering and mys-
tery, behind doors, and under the stairs, and in the
corners of the entry.

Solomon John was busy, privately making some
candles for the tree. He had been collecting some

bayberries, as he understood they made very nice
candles, so that it would not be necessary to buy
any.

The elders of the family never all went into the
back parlor together, and all tried not to see what
was going on. Mrs. Peterkin would go in with
Solomon John, or Mr. Peterkin with Elizabeth Eliza,
or Elizabeth Eliza and Agamemnon and Solomon
John. The little boys and the small cousins were
never allowed even to look inside the room.

Elizabeth Eliza meanwhile went into town a num-
ber of times. She wanted to consult Amanda as
to how much ice-cream they should need, and
whether they could make it *t home, as they had
cream and ice. She was pretty busy in her own
room; the furniture had to be changed, and the
carpet altered. The " hump " was higher than she
had expected. There was danger of bumping her
own head whenever she crossed it. She had to
nail some padding on the ceiling for fear of acci-
dents.

The afternoon before Christmas, Elizabeth Eliza,
Solomon John, and their father, collected in the
back parlor for a council. The carpenters had done
their work, and the tree stood at its full height at
the back of the room, the top stretching up into
the space arranged for it. All the chips and shav-
ings were cleared away, and it stood cm a neat box.

But what were they to put upon the tree ?

Solomon John had brought in his supply of can-
dles, but they proved to be very "stringy" and
very few of them. It was strange how many bay-
berries it took to make a few candles ! The little
boys had helped him, and he had gathered as much
as a bushel of bayberries. He had put them in
water, and skimmed off the wax, according to the
directions, but there was so little wax !

Solomon John had given the little boys some of
the bits sawed off from the legs of the chairs. He
had suggested they should cover them with gilt
paper, to answer for gilt apples, without telling
them what they were for.

These apples, a little blunt at the end, and the
candles, were all they had for the tree.

After all her trips into town, Elizabeth Eliza had
forgotten to bring anything for it.

"I thought of candies and sugar-plums," she
said, " but I concluded if we made caramels our-
selves we should not need them. But, then, we
have not made caramels. The fact is, that day
my head was full of my carpet. I had bumped
it pretty badly, too."

Mr. Peterkin wished he had taken, instead of a
fir-tree, an apple-tree he had seen in October, full
of red fruit.

" But the leaves would have fallen off by this
time," said Elizabeth Eliza.

•

;

876.]

A RIDDLE.

141

" And the apples too," said Solomon John.
; " It is odd I should have forgotten, that day I
Vent in on purpose to get the things," said Eliza-
>eth Eliza, musingly. " But I went from shop to
hop, and didn't know exactly what to get. I saw
I great many gilt things for Christmas-trees, but I
knew the little boys were making the gilt apples;
•here were plenty of candles in the shops, but I
! :new Solomon John was making the candles."
Mr. Peterkin thought it was quite natural.
Solomon John wondered if it were too late for
hem to go into town now.

' Elizabeth Eliza could not go in the next morn-
ag, for there was to be a grand Christmas dinner,
■nd Mr. Peterkin could not be spared, and Solomon
! lohn was sure he and Agamemnon would not know
'hat to buy. Besides, they would want to try the
andles to-night.
Mr. Peterkin asked if the presents everybody
ad been preparing would not answer? But Eliza-
eth Eliza knew they would be too heavy.
A gloom came over the room. There was only
flickering gleam from one of Solomon John's
andles that he had lighted by way of trial.
Solomon John again proposed going into town,
[e lighted a match to examine the newspaper about
le trains. There were plenty of trains coming out
t that hour, but none going in except a very late
ne. That would not leave time to do anything"
nd come back.

' "We could go in, Elizabeth Eliza and I," said
olomon John, "but we should not have time to
uy anything."

Agamemnon was summoned in. Mrs. Peterkin
as entertaining the uncles and aunts in the front
arlor. Agamemnon wished there was time to
:udy up something about electric lights. If they
Duld only have a calcium light ! Solomon John's
andle sputtered and went out.

' At this rhoment there was a loud knocking at the
ont door. The little boys, and the small cousins,

and the uncles and aunts, and Mrs. Peterkin,
hastened to see what was the matter.

The uncles and aunts thought somebody's house
must be on fire. The door was opened, and there
was a man, white with flakes, for it was beginning
to snow, and he was pulling in a large box.

Mrs. Peterkin supposed it contained some of
Elizabeth Eliza's purchases, so she ordered it to be
pushed into the back parlor, and hastily called back
her guests and the little boys into the other room.
The little boys and the small cousins were sure they
had seen Santa Claus himself.

Mr. Peterkin lighted the gas. The box was
addressed to Elizabeth Eliza. It was from the lady
from Philadelphia ! She had gathered a hint from
Elizabeth Eliza's letters that there was to be a
Christmas-tree, and had filled this box with all
that would be needed.

It was opened directly. There was every kind
of gilt hanging thing, from gilt pea-pods to butter-
flies on springs. There were shining flags and
lanterns, and bird-cages, and nests with birds sit-
ting on them, baskets of fruit, gilt apples and
bunches of grapes, and, at the bottom of the
whole, a large box of candles and a box of Phila-
delphia bonbons ! t

Elizabeth Eliza and Solomon John could scarcely
keep from screaming. The little boys and the
small cousins knocked on the folding-doors to ask
what was the matter.

Hastily Mr. Peterkin and the rest took out the
things and hung them on the tree, and put on the
candles.

When all was done, it looked so well that Mr.
Peterkin exclaimed :

" Let us light the candles now, and send to invite
all the neighbors to-night, and have the tree on
Christmas Eve ! "

And so it was that the Peterkins had their
Christmas-tree the day before, and on Christmas
night could go and visit their neighbors.

)•

A RIDDLE.

Johnny looked down in the spring, one night,
And what did he see but a dipper !

The handle crooked, the bottom out.
Yet floating as trim as a clipper.

It wasn't broken; 'twas good as new;
Yes, fit for a monarch's daughter.

Ho ! you 're a funny old dipper ! " said

•' You can't hold a drop of water."

John ;

142

JACK-IN -THE-PULPIT.

[December,

cil

JACK-IN -THE- PULPIT

A BUSY December to you, my youngsters! A
busy December, full of plans for making other peo-
ple happy ; and then a merry Christmas ! The
holiday St. Nicholas, I 'm told, will reach you
this year before Christmas Day. If that 's the case,
why Christmas, too, will come in ahead of time,
that 's all.

The fact is, Christmas is n't a golden flash in the
children's sky. No, it 's a sort of goldy way, bright,
beautiful, and holy, that shimmers into view early
in December, grows brightest on The Day, and
then fades slowly into the New Year. Christmas
shines in some hearts as soon as they know it is
coming.

Let 's see. We must start off with a holiday sub-
ject this time. Ha ! I have it !

A BIG PLUM PUDDING.

Now and then, the Little Schoolma'am reads
things to the children that make your Jack almost
jump out of his pulpit. Now what do you think
of this account which the little lady lately read out
of an old book to a hungry group of youngsters
who had crowded about her because they had seen
her "laughing at something in the book?" She
said the June referred to was the summer of 18 19.

"On June 8th, at Paignton fair, near Exeter, the ancient custom
of drawing through the town a plum-pudding of an immense size,
and afterward distributing it to the populace, was revived. The in-
gredients which composed this enormous pudding were 400 pounds
of flour. 170 pounds of beef suet, 140 pounds of raisins, and 240 eggs.
It was kepv constantly boiling in a brewer's copper from Saturday
morning to Tuesday, when it was placed on a car, decorated with
ribbons, evergreens, &c, and drawn along the street by eight oxen."

There was a pudding for you, almost as grand
as Mother Mitchel's ! But they should have saved
it for Christmas.

THE CHRISTMAS PUTZ AT BETHLEHEM.

My Dear Jack : Will you please let me tell the other girls, and
their brothers, how to make something pretty for Christmas?

In Bethlehem, Pa., where mother and I passed considerable time,
there is a large Moravian settlement, and some of their customs are
very interesting, particularly during the Christmas season At that
time, the Moiavians make what they call a Putz, not only for the
amusement of their children, hut for all who may come to see it.

A Putz is a miniature landscape, with whatever figures you may
.like to put in it. Some of these scenes are made on a grand scale ;
but smaller ones, eqally pretty, and not so difficult to manage, are
made at fhe foot of the Christmas-tree. The tree is placed on a table,
or, better still, it is set in a large dry-goods box, and then boards are
put across the top of the box, as a foundation for the Putz.

If you wish to make one, girls, you have only to go into the woods
for your materials. Pieces of rock, large and small, mosses, ferns,
lichens, vines, and whatever you may think pretty, will answer the
purpose. The large rocks, you use for mountains, interspersed with
small branches of cedar and pine for trees. A narrow piece of tin-
foil, bent into various shapes, will do for a water-fall, across which a
card-board bridge can be laid. Lower down, you can have a looking-
glass lake, or, better still, a tin pan, filled with water, on which arti-
ficial ducks, geese, fish, boats, etc., can float. Conceal the edge of
the glass or pan with moss, and put grave! at the bottom of your real
lake, as well as gravel walks around it

With card-board houses, and fences, and miniature sheep, horses,
etc.. you can make very pretty scenes. Or you can represent the
birth of the Christ-child, with small toy figures that come expressly
for such scenes. You will find it easy to make a pretty design for
Christmas with very little material.

The Moravians at Bethlehem welcome all visitors, whether stran-
gers or not, who choose to go into any of the houses to examine the
Putz, and it certainly is a very interesting sight.

I am your sincere young friend, Mamie H.

EAST OR WEST?

" Deacon Green, please sir, Tom Scott says
Aspinwall is west of Panama, and I say it is n't."

" Well, my man, what are your grounds for dis-
puting him ? " said the Deacon, mildly, seeing that
some reply was, expected.

" Why, good grounds enough, sir. He admits
that Aspinwall is on the Atlantic Ocean side of the
isthmus, and Panama is on the Pacific Ocean, or
that part of it known as Panama Bay. Humph !
guess 'most anybody ought to know that the Pacific
Ocean is west of this continent, and the Atlantic
is east of it ; and yet he sticks to it that Panama is
east of Aspinwall ! "

" Well, Thomas is generally pretty sure of a
statement before he makes it," put in the Deacon.

" But, sir," proceeded the boy, growing redder
as he began to suspect that the Deacon might be
on Tom's side, " I don't see any sense in going
right against geography. He needn't try to make
out that the Pacific Ocean is east of the Atlantic —
not on this side of the world, sir."

"That's true," said the Deacon. "And now.
Joe, I '11 tell you what I '11 do. You just run home
and examine the map closely, and then if you find,
on careful inspection, that Thomas is wrong, come
to me and I '11 fill your hat with the finest apples
you ever tasted in your life."

Joe did run home ; he did examine the map
closely — and to this day he never has said a word
to the Deacon about those apples.

ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER.

Germantown, August ioth, 1876.
Dear Jack : I wish to tell you a little story about a canary and
a sparrow. One momine, while my little brother and myself were
sitting on the piazza, a sparrow came and perched on my canary's
cage, and began eating the seed it found on the outside. My bird
was very glad to see a friend, and immediately began singing. My

t87°-l

JACK-IN-T HE-PULPIT.

ittle brotlier happened to be eating a piece of bread, and he threw a
ew crumbs to the sparrow, which it soon picked up and carried to
he canary. It was very funny to see it put the crumbs in the canary's
kieak. I think it gave them to the canary because it was thankful
or the seed my bird had given him. — Yours truly,

Edith M. Darrach.

A LITTLE HOLLANDER'S BIRDCAGE.

New York, Oct. 12, 1876.

Dear Jack-IN-THE-Pulpi t : Once, when I was
n Holland, waiting in an Amsterdam railroad sta-
ion for the train to come along, I saw something
very pretty that I made a drawing of it on pur-
pose for you, knowing you would like to show it to
our boys and girls. Here it is — a bird-cage, and
he very finest bird-cage I ever saw in my life.
There is no need of describing it. The children
/ill see the beautiful stand embellished with moss
nd flowers, the two houses set in the midst of the
;reen, the connecting gallery covered with fine wire
■auze, and the birds skipping to and fro enjoying
very inch of it. They can see, too, the bell in the
agoda tower which rings sweetly whenever the
ttle inmates choose to pull the string. In fact,
'hile I was looking, one of the birds did pull the
tring, so I sketched him in the act.

I did not draw the railroad station, you see, Jack,
ecause the person who was taking the cage home

Warren, the St. Nicholas artist. He has done
it so beautifully and accurately that if ever I make-
any more drawings I shall ask him to copy them
for the credit of the family.

I am, dear Mr. Jack, yours very truly,

Joel Stacy.

the safety lamp.

Philadelphia, Sept. 25, 1876.

Dear Little Schoolma'am : I think the omission in C. A. D.'s
letter, page 798, of the October St. Nicholas, is the safety lamp
that Sir Humphrey Davy invented, by means of which many lives
have been saved. In May, 1812, an explosion of gas took place in
the Felling Colliery, near Newcastle, which caused the death of nine-
ty-two persons. This prompted a committee of proprietors of mines
to wait upon Davy to sec if he could devise any way of preventing
similar accidents.

Davy had observed that combustion was not communicated through
tubes of small dimensions, and, by experimenting, he gradually re-
duced the size of the tubes till he found that a metallic gauge, with
apertures not exceeding one twenty-second part of an inch, was
sufficient to prevent the flame inside of the lamp from igniting the
explosive gas on the outside. He therefore devised a lamp with a
wire screen, which the miners could use with safety.

Your friend, Francis H. Jackson, Jr.

The Little Schoolma'am wishes Jack to thank
Master Jackson, Nelly M. Sherwin, Martie S. D.,
" Ned," R. S. S., and all other young friends who
have correctly given the important fact omitted by
C. A. D. She wishes you also to know that a new

■f a birthday present to his little daughter, said it
is to be set upon a pedestal in the garden. I
i'<-tld n't help thinking how delighted the little girl
i )uld be with his beautiful gift, and how easily "the
,:ing could be copied (from the drawing) by some
merican cage-maker in case I ever should want
give my little girl a superb Christmas present.
Then I thought of your thousands of young folks,
d how some of their fathers, who could spare the
quisite money, might like to have such cages
ide for them. The wire-work can be so delicate
it the birds inside will almost think they are not
;ged at all. Perhaps I ought to tell you that the
awing I send was made from my sketch by Mr.

safety lamp, called Landau's New Safety Lamp, for
use in mines, promises to be an improvement even
on Sir Humphrey Davy's. She says, "Tell them
that the chief peculiarity of the invention is that,
by an ingenious arrangement, the admission of
gas extinguishes the flame, so that it cannot under
any circumstances be exploded by the lamp."

Humph ! The dear Little Schoolma'am does n't
tell us how the miners will feel when they are left
in the dark. I should n't like that part of the in-
vention ; still, it is better than being blown up.
Any intelligent miner would rather have a whole
body in the dark, than to be scattered about in
fragments in a good light.

144

FOR VERY LITTLE FOLKS.

[December,

THE ROBIN'S VISIT.

nce a robin flew into a pretty room ;
and just as he went in, the wind
banned the window-blinds shut, so
he could not cret out a grain.

At first he did not mind, but flew
about and lit on the bright picture-
frames, and wished his pretty wife
were with him to enjoy the pleasant
place. Then he rested on the back
of a small chair, and then he saw
another robin !

" O-ho ! " sang he to himself, —
" here is some one else. I must
speak to him : ' Whew ! Mr. Robin,
glad to meet you. My name is
Cock Robin. What do they call
this place ? ' "

But the other robin did not an-
swer. He only opened his mouth
and jerked his head from side toj
side just as Mr. Cock Robin did.
You see the other robin lived in the
looking-glass, and could not speak.

" A rude fellow ! " chirped Mr.'
Cock Robin to himself. " Not worth
talking to ! Ah ! yonder are some
fine cherries ! I '11 eat some."

The cherries were in a bowl on
the table. Mr. Cock Robin helped
himself. Then he decided to try the
other bird once more.

" My friend," sang he softly, as he
caught the stem of a fine cherry
in his beak and flew to the chair
again, " here is a fine cherry for
you Oh ! oh ! "

•6.] FOR VERY LITTLE FOLKS. I45

Well might Mr. Cock Robin say " Oh ! " for there stood the other robin
n just such a chair, offering him a cherry in the most polite manner !

" Thanks ! " said Mr. Cock Robin. " But, my deaf and dumb friend,
„$ we each have one, we need not stand on cer-e-mo-ny."

So both began to eat.

" He is a fine, sociable fellow, after all," said Mr. Cock Robin.

The door opened, and in came a little girl.

" What 's that ? " cried Mr. Cock Robin faintly to himself.

The girl clapped her hands for joy, and ran toward him.

Up flew Mr. Cock Robin in a great fright. He whisked past the looking-
,lass and saw that the other robin was badly scared also. Then he tried to
y out of a closed window where there were no blinds ; but he only dashed
gainst some very hard kind of air that hurt his sides. If he had been like
du, he would have known that it was window-glass, and not hard air.

" Poor birdie ! " said the little girl, as she threw open the window.
You shall go out if you want to."

In an instant, Mr. Cock Robin was flying through the sunlight to his
:tle wife.

" Where have you been ? " chirped she, as he reached the nest.

" Oh, I 've been on a visit," said Mr. Cock Robin — and he told her
1 about it.

Soon Mrs. Cock Robin said, softly : " I should like to see that other one.
/as he very handsome, my dear ? "

" Handsome ! " cried Mr. Robin, sharply. " Handsome ! Not at all, my
'ear — a very homely bird, indeed ! Yes, ma'am — very homely, and as deaf
5 a post."

" How dreadful ! " sighed Mrs. Cock Robin.

WHAT MY LITTLE BROTHER THINKS.

My little brother is — oh, so funny !
He thinks that a king is made of money ;
He thinks little cherubs, overhead,
Hold up the stars to light us to bed.

He thinks that near those cherubs, but under,
Are other cherubs who cause the thunder ;

Vol. IV.— 10.

I46 FOR VERY LITTLE FOLKS. [Decehbb

They roll great tables and chairs around,
And growl and roar with an awful sound.

He thinks some quick little cherub scratches,
To make the lightning, a million matches ;
Another carries a watering-pot
To wet the earth when it gets too hot.

He thinks — my brother is, oh, so knowing ! —
A feather-bed cherub does all the snowing ;
He thinks the feathers come sailing down,
And make the snow that whitens the town.

He thinks that a painted mask can eat him ;
Or pull his hair ; or chase and beat him.
Yes, really thinks a mask is alive !
But my little brother is only five.

He thinks little fairies make the clamor
In grandpa's watch, with a tiny hammer.
He thinks some fairies can live in a book ;
Or dance in kettles, to frighten cook.

He thinks the grasshoppers bring molasses ;
That a fairy over the bright moon passes ;
He thinks my Jack-in-the-box is alive,
Like witches who go to the sky for a drive.

&■

He thinks our " sis " is her dolly's mother —
My dear, absurd little baby brother !
Yes, thinks he is uncle, and feels quite grand
To lead his niece about by the hand !

But, the best of all, he is really certain
He once saw Santa Claus through the curtain ;
And he thinks Old Santy '11 come by and by,
On Christmas Eve — and so do I.

! 7 6.]

FOR VERY LITTLfi FOLKS.

147

WHAT MY LITTLE BROTHER THINKS.

148

OUR M USIC PAGE.

[Decew

CHRISTMAS CAROL.

Words by Mary Mapes Dodge.

; Sop. Solo. Allegro Moderate.

1. Good news on Christ - mas morn - ing, Good news, O child - ren dear !

2. Good news on Christ - mas morn - ing, Good news, O child - ren sweet 1

Tenor or Baritone Solo, ad lib.

Music by F. Boott.

For
The

Christ,
way

3. Good news on Christ -mas morn - ing, Good news, O child - ren

4. Good news on Christ - mas morn - ing, Good news, O child - ren

glad!
fair!

Rare
Still

gifts
doth

once born
to find the]

are yours to \
the one Goo

Beth - le- hem, Is liv - ing now and here.
Ho - ly Child, Is light - ed for your feet.

Good news on Christmas morn - ing, Good news, O child -ren
Good news on Christmas morn - ing, Good news, O child - ren

give the Lord, As ev - er wise men had.
Shep- herd hold, The feeb - lest in his care.

Good news on Christmas
Good news on Christmas

morn
morn

£=J=±

!saEg^j#§

ing, Good news, O child - ren
ing, Good news, O child - ren

J-r— I N-

X&SL

W^-

-*-*.

:*=*=

fc«tt

■f "T

3»^&

dear ! For Christ, for Ch 1 ist, once bom in Beth - le - hem, Is liv - ing now and
sweet ! The way, the way to find the Ho - ly Child, Is light - ed for your

For Christ, once born in
The way to find the

^mm

ES^EiE

Z3t=g-

glad ! Rare gifts, rare gifts are yours to give the Lord. As ev - er wise men had....
fair ! Still doth, still doth the one Good Shep-herd hold The feeb - lest in his care

Rare gifts are yours to 1
Still doth the one G00J

=d=t

5*^S=£=3F

_ff=t

S g-|-*~ »*=g-rg *

r *

Good news, good news, good news, good
divisi.

^Mi

g^E

m *=g

Beth - le - hem, Is liv - ing now and here.
Ho - ly Child, Is light - ed for your feet

Good news, good news, good news, good news, good news.

^^P^g:

give the Lord, As ev - er wise men had.
Shep-herd hold, The feeb-lest In his care.

Good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good

news.
D. :

3 g g-

±=t=

at=t

*-*-

a tempo.

?F^SE=r

J*.

«r

T=W^

rall..\ I.

* JVords from St. Nicholas for January, 1876.

76.]

THE LETTER-BOX.

149

THE LETTER-BOX.

Home-made Christmas Presents.

The best response we can make to correspondents who ask us for
' p in devising Christmas presents that they can make with their

n hands, is to refer them to the article called "One Hundred

ristmas Presents, and How to Make Them," in St. Nich-

\S for December, 1875. A new supply of this back number is
'.*dy, and any one, by inclosing twenty-five cents with full past-
lice address to the publishers, will receive a copy of the article by

irn mail. It is so full, so clear, and so copiously illustrated, that
, do not feel able to improve upon it. Our " Letter-Box " in last
■ nth's St. Nicholas contains directions for making a few articles
!fe Christmas gifts. In fact, suggestions for pretty handiwork abound

St. Nicholas, and we always are glad when correspondents

dly add to our stock.

Berlin, Mass., August 29, 1S76.

)ear St. Nicholas: I saw in your March number an account
L ,-i doll claimed to be the oldest in America.

1 friend of mine, Mary I,. Whitcomb, has in her possession a doll
- ch is much older. This, the first doll brought to America, was
denied, in 1733, by Captain George Girdler to his daughter, Han-

Girdler, then two years of age.
: 'he doll's body is of wood, to which the legs and arms are tacked
■. 1 small nails. The doll's head is of wood, painted or coated with

lething giving it an appearance not so much unlike that of those
*v* ur day as might be expected.
5t was last dressed about thirty-five years ago, and now wears a

te lace cap, dress of brown satin, white stockings, and velvet

pers, and looks very like the little old lady it is. I intended
+ l *ing long before now on this subject, but have neglected to do so.
3* ink St. Nicholas is a splendid magazine. — Very truly yours,

Clara L. Shattuck.

New York, Oct. 16, 1876.

•ear St. Nicholas: I cut this out of the newspaper, and I do

1 you would put it in the " Letter-Box." It is so nice, and it
- r :es me feel as if Cinderella, and Jack-the-Giant- Killer, and all
U 1 ie old stories might be true :

_ \ Two exceedingly tall people are Captain Bates and wife, the giant
j - giantess, who were married in London some years ago. The
l^ain and spouse have retired from public life, and built a house

r Rochester, New York. He is seven and a half feet high, and
, is an inch taller, and each weighs more than four hundred pounds.
''■ '' i rooms of their house arc eighteen feet highland the doors twelve
Z : high. Their bedstead is ten feet long, and all the furniture is
j;s>ortionateIy large."
T^-ist to think of it ! I should n't be surprised if there were a great

knocker on the slreet-cloor, made like a man's face, and if it snap-
; its teeth at people when they went to knock. — Yours truly,
t , Sally G. Clark.

Orange, N. J., August 20, 1G76.

ear St. Nicholas : I have seen a great many things about girls
J± '- "Oving themselves and learning to be housekeepers, and so on ;
" not a word about boys. Now I think that somebody ought to

; something for us fellows. — Yours truly, Arthur Ropes.

r thur, and hundreds of other boys, will be glad to know that his

£ t has been anticipated. There are to be nine familiar and friendly

1 dks with Boys" during the present volume of St. Nicholas, and

if them from men who know just what the boys ought to hear.

Bryant tells you this month of the ways of boys when he was a

"jhimself, and beneath his pleasant narrative you will find many a

^f n of true manliness. Every word of Mr. Bryant's has value for

boys, because it comes from one who, by an upright, noble

ind the worthy cultivation of fine gifts, has proved an honor to

1 ime and his country. Soon you shall hear from the others. Your

. Trowbridge has a hearty word to say, and friends from the

St. Louis, Mo.
Dear St. Nicholas: I live in St. Louis, and get your Magazine
every month. I have got the hull of a boat, about two feet long,
with places for two masts: and I have rigged her like a schooner and
have great fun sailing her on a pond near where I live. But I never
saw a vessel; only pictures, and don't know how to rig her right. I
wish some boy, who lives on the sea-coast, would tell me how to rig
her like a yachL 1 saw a picture of the " Countess of Dufferin," but
I can't make it all out. My father has been to sea, and tries to ex-
plain it to me; but he has forgotten, it was so long ago. Do yachts
have fore top-masts, and top-sails ? and how is the top-sail hoisted ?
And do they have ratlines? and do ihe stays come down over the
ends of the cross-trees to the side of the vessel, or are they made fast
to the mast? I don't see how they can be made fast to the mast, for
then you can't raise the gaff; and I don't see how there can be a
foretop-sail, because it would foul the maintop-stay. I am going to
take my schooner to pieces, and rig it up right after school hours,
and if you would like, I will tell you more about it some other time. —

Lewis G. Conant.

Miniature yachts, when rigged as schooners, have foretop-masts

and maintop-masts, and foretop-sails, and maintop-sails. Both top-
sails are secured to short " sprits " or poles, and are hoisted from
deck. The stay from the foremast to the mainmast is called the

. irowoncige lias a nearly word to say, and tnends irom the

p; side of the Atlantic are coming to have a friendly talk with

George MacDonald, who wrote that wonderful fairy tale,

e Princess and the Goblin," and the rhyme beginning " Where

; r 'ou come from, baby dear?" will soon be heard from, and before

you shall have a word from the school-boy's friend, Tom Hughes,

ar of " Tom Brown at Oxford " and " School-days at Rugby."

" spring-stay," and in changing the vessel's course, the fore top-sail
is lowered till it can pass under the spring-slay, and then it is brought
up on the other side. Ratlines are never used on the shrouds. Only
the larger vessels use cross-trees, or "spreaders" as they are called;
and in every case the top-mast back-stays always come to the deck,
and are fastened just abaft (to the rear) of the shroud. Such schoon-
ers also have a stay from the top of the maintop-mast to the top of
the mainmast,

This outline drawing gives the position of the sails commonly used
in miniature yachts; 1 is the mainsail, 2 the maintop-sail, 3 the fore-
sail, 4 the foretop-sail, 5 the staysail, 6 the jib, 7 the flying-jib. The
first mast is called the foremast; the short mast above, the foretop-
mast. The second mast is the mainmast, and the one above it is
the maintop-mast. Two shrouds arc given to each mast, and one
back-stay to each topmast. The dotted lines show how the foretop-
sail passes the spring-stay, and the top of the foresails, and shows
how the jibs pass each other, one lapping over the other. This is an
outline of the sails and standing rigging only, the running rigging
being omitted to save room.

Providence, R. I., October 23d, 1S76.

Dear St. Nicholas: The lady with the cold in her head, men-
tioned in the last number of St. Nicholas, called to the person who
was coming, "Caduceus" — Can you see us?

The Caduceus was the rod of Mercury, the messenger of the gods,

i5o

THE RIDDLE-BOX.

[Dece.v

and God of Trade, and also of thieves. It consisted of a short staff,
around which two snakes twined, and which bore a pair ofwings.-
Yours truly,

Charles Hart Payne.

Annie Manning also answers the question correctly.

We are sure that all our readers who admire a fine dialogue, or
parlor- play, will heartily welcome Mr. Eggleston's ''fairy show"
in the present number, entided "The House of Santa Claus." The
play has been publicly tried in Brooklyn, and has proven a complete
success. With only slight changes, it can be readily adapted to
home or parlor representation. In its present form, therefore, it com-
mends itself equally to those who are seeking an effective and lively
composition for school or public exhibition, and to those who may
desire an aid of this sort in the entertainment of a social or family
gathering.

Boys and girls wishing to imitate stone, when making scenery such
as is described in the " House of Santa Claus," or when making card-
houses, etc., can do so by covering the object which is to represent
stone with a coating of glue, or mucilage, and then throwing com-
mon sand upon it, before the glue has dried. If the sand is applied
liberally, a very close resemblance to stone may thus be produced.

Buckland.
Dear St. Nicholas : I 've meant to write to you for ever so long,
and to join with the rest of the girls and boys in telling how I love
you, — yes, I believe I almost love you. I think you're just the fresh-
est, cheeriest, jolliest, and altogether loveliest magazine I know of
I 've taken you ever since you were born, and we all enjoy you so
much, from grandma to my little three-year-old brother, who looks
at the pictures, and takes a great deal of delight in having " Sister
Lizzie" read the short, big-print stories to him. There was one in a

previous number — I think the May one — which especially pl<:
him, and which he is never tired of hearing read. I can't remei
its name; but it's about some little chickens, whose mother told t
to fly, but, as their wings were not grown, couldn't; and non
them tried, except one, who did his best, although he did n't succ
and was afterward rewarded because he really tried. "Brave
our Centennial Cat," also delighted him very much. For my pa
Hked " The Queen of the Moles," and Miss Thaxter's bear stoi
well as any, though I don't know but Mrs. A. D. T. Whitr
"Spinning and Weaving," "Midsummer and the Poets,"
well, I keep thinking of more and more of them,*— and all I can 1
is to repeat what I said before, and that is, that I think the v
number is just as nice as it could possibly be. — Yours always,

L. W.

St Alba

Dear St. Nicholas: I will tell you a story about my uncle

he was a little boy. He told his mother he was sick, and c

want to go to school. She said he could take some castor-oil a:

to bed. He went to school. Frankie Webb

"The Boy Emigrants," which has so delighted our readers d
the past year, is soon to be published in book form by Scribner,
strong & Co. Mr. Brooks knows a boy's heart through and thr<
and his fine story, with its wealth of strong narrative, exciting s
a:,d incidents, and true lessons of self-reliance, ought to be re;
every boy in the land. No better picture of the gold-seeker's Hi
be found anywhere in literature than this stirring, straightfor
manly story of "The Boy Emigrants." We know, young fii
that all of you will rejoice at its publication in separate form, ai
heartily congratulate Mr. Brooks, and the host of boys who w
eager to own it, on the handsome appearance of the volume,
binding is neat and tasteful, and the pictures are the same that
appeared in St Nicholas. For you who read the magazine, the
needs no word of praise or introduction, but we feel it both, a me
and a duty to commend it earnestly to all.

THE RIDDLE-BOX.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN NOVEMBER NUMBER.

Acrostic. — Dame Durden,

Little Nell

D — affbdi—

A — lkal—

M —in—

E — lephan —

D — amse —

U —sag—

R — ave —

D — im—

E — 1—

N — icke—

Anagrams. — x. Boston. 2. New York. 3. Rochester. 4. Wash-
ington. 5. Charleston. 6. Mobile. 7. St, Paul.

Easy Syncopations. — x. Marry, Mary. 2. Lucky, Lucy. 3.
Norma, Nora.

Reversals. — 1. Brag, garb. 2. Room, moor. 3. Flow, wolf. 4.
Mode, Edom. 5. Note, Eton. 6. Strop, ports. 7. Animal, lamina.

Abbreviations. — 1. Bread, red. 2. Cedar, ear. 3. Dirge, ire. 4.
Iliad, lad. 5. Jewel, eel. 6. Maple, ale. 7. Niece ice. 8. Olive,
lie. 9. Spire, pie. 10. Wheat, hat.

Diagonal Puzzle. — Baronet, Coronet
B a a l b e C
b A l l o O N

B A R T R A M
B E D O V I N

C A N O N R Y

L E a f l E t

T A B O R E T

Cross-word Enigma. — London.
Charade, No. 1. — Chimney-piece.
Square-Word. — iron

ROME
OMIT

NETS

Grammatical Comparisons. — 1. Bee, beer, beast. 2. Bow
boast. 5. Fee, fear, feast 4. Row, roar, roast.
Riddle. — Cricket
Apocopes. — 1. Cockade, cock. 2. Hamper, ham. 3. Rattl
4. Rushlight, rush. 5. Rueful, rue.

Rebus. — " Great expectations bring great disappointments.'
Pictorial Double Acrostic. — Table, Easel.

T — un— E

A — mmoni — A

B —00k— S

L — yr— E

E —1- L
Easy Enigma. — Man, hat, tan — Manhattan.
Charade, No. 2. — Eye-lash.
Diamond Puzzle. — r

not

ROMEO

TEN

Numerical Enigma. — The Aurora Borealis.
Pictorial Enigma. — Stream: Star, arm, ram, aster, mastisfe
tar, mat, rat, rest, meat, ear.

Clarence M. Trowbridge and Robert L. Groendycke answered correctly all the puzzles in the October number.

Answers to Special Puzzles in October Number were received, previous to October iS, from Walter Raymond Spaldin:
Mosmat), Brainerd P. Emery, Lou L Richards, John B. Greiner, Emma Elliott, " Ajax and Alex," Bessie T. B. Benedict, Virginia 1
A. Carter, Sheldon Emery, Mary P. Johnson, Howard Steel Rodgers, Lena Devereux, Willie Dibblee, C. H. Delanoy, W. C I
Allie Bertram, Ella M. Kirkendall, Leila Allen, Millie Thompson, Charles N. Wilkinson, Mary N. Wadsworth, "Juno," Mamie B. E
Howard Steel Rodgers, Osman Abbott, Nessie E. Stevens, Charles F. Cook, C. A. Montague, A. G. Cameron, "Scarsdale," Susie 1
Eleanor N. Hughes, Frank P. Nagel, Bessie McLaren, Helen Green.

oi ■

I Fourteen letters. My whole is a fragrant flower.

L went to pick wild i, 5, 7, 9, 2, 6, 14, ti, 10, 8, 3, 13, and found it

oming in the field where they grew. The 7, 12, i, 3, 1 made the

i, 7 very 13, 2, 14, 3, 5 ; and I did not care if the 6, it, 8, 9, 7, 1
V 3ked my fingers. I 13, c, 2 a sheep or 5, 2, 12 come and 6, 11, 12,
1 [, 14 some of 8, 5, 1 leaves. A boy with a sly look (who 11, 12,
-H'l birds' nests) came by, trundling a 6, 9, n, 7, 12, 2. He had
.3 a 6, 12, 2 and 9, 11, ro, 12, 2, and aimed at the 6, 11, 4, 9, 13, 5

1 robin, through the 6, 9, 7, 13. I was 13, 12, 7, io, 8, 14, n than
1 an teil that he hit 8, 5. Then I took my 10, 12, 13, 4, 1 and 6, 14,

11, 8, 4, 1, and went home. B.

CHARADE.

My first is never out ;

My second 's but a letter ;
My third will waste your ink, —

Or, if you like it better,
My third will hold your sheep ;
My last is impress deep.

My whole is free and bold,

And will not be controlled. L. w, h.

DOUBLE DIAGONAL PUZZLE.

I 'Jine letters. Diagonals — From left to right : A sportive insect.
>m right to left : A genus of plants which one handsome species
:his insect lives upon.

. An ancient kingdom. 2. A very useful household article. 3. A
low flower. 4. Small fleets. 5. To attract strongly. 6. Making
nparisons. 7. Gay. 8. A small flag on a vessel's mast. 9. A use-
piece of furniture. p.

HIDDEN WORD-SQUARE.

; . Mv sister Rebecca detests both pickles and pears. 2- Then are
ighty children not allowed to go? 3. We made bark frames and
kets for the fair. 4. The great door is broken, actually broken in

' ; ces. 5. Those were the first arts that we learned.
Concealed in the above arc five words having the following signifi-

-Mons: 1. A student at a military school. 2. A place of public con-
'- 3. To shut out or exclude. 4. To decree or establish as law.
Specimens of a kind of pastry.

Che five words, when found and properly arranged, will form a
lare-word. j. J. t.

CROSS-WORD ENIGMA.

(The whole is a word dear to all Americans.)

Mv first is in flour, but not in wheat ;

My second is in dine, but not in eat;

My third is in bench, but not in seat;

My fourth is in fence, and also in gate ;

My fifth is in number, but not in date.

My sixth is in stop, but not in go ;

My seventh is in yes, but not in no. L. P.

SQUARE-WORD.

Fill the blanks in their order with words making sense, and which,
placed under each other in the same order, will f< >rm the square-word.

I saw a violet and gold growing beside a wild on a little

in the river, and wondered if birds carried the there. J.

AVORD SYNCOPATIONS.

Take one word from out another without changing the order of the
letters, and find a complete word remaining.

1. Take to sin from a small dog and leave a row. 2. Take always
from a young hare and leave to allow. 3. Take a shoemaker's in-
strument from unrestrained by law and leave smaller. 4, Take a tree
from showy and leave an insect. 5. Take an era from a show and
leave a short breath. 6. Take cunning from a checked cloth and
leave to brown. 7. Take the last from a cord and leave a weight. 8.
Take part of a bird from vibrating and leave to utter melodious
sounds. c. d.

ANAGRAM PROVERBS.

Make a proverb from each sentence. Thus the letters of " Flams
sage's rags" may be transposed into " As green as grass."

1. Earns sage's rags. 2. A bub says, "Ease! '* 3. Scold a shy
cat, Ira. 4. Asa has a dream charm. 5. Again Sam blows a nice
ace. CYRIL DEANE.

RIDDLE.

Five of a party of seven arc we —

With our respects to you.
Now, a part of each of our names we'll tell,

In a tale both new and true :

Two friends who longed to wed, would fry

Some fish — so down they sat:
By set of sun the fish were done, —

Now what do you make of that ?

EASY DECAPITATIONS.

1. Behead a small hound and leave a large American bird. 2.
Behead a North American bea->t of prey and leave a part of his head.
3. Behead a sly, thievish animal and leave a common beast of bur-
den. 4. Behead a common, lively horned quadruped and leave a
grain. 5. Behead common farm animals and leave a beverage.

6. Behead a small, spry animal and leave part of an artist's outfit.

7. Behead an early bird and leave a ship mentioned in the Bible.

8. Behead a wild aquatic game bird and leave one who is in love.

' s.

EASY DIAMOND PL'ZZLE.

I. A CONSONANT. 2
metal. 5. A consonant.

A domestic animal. 3. Glossy silk. 4. A

TRANSPOSITIONS.

. Shr-
it was

her assertion that among all her pets the one valued

■ . 2. The tired Arab joyfully exclaimed,

, and I shall be released from my . " 3.

: Indian said of himself, " through tangled bushes, and

- the thorniest thickets. 4. Her found vent

sars. 5. He could not propensity for writing . B.

CLASSICAL DOUBLE ACROSTIC.

1. A BEAUTIFUL Roman girl, whose father slew her rather than
have her made a slave. 2. The Grecian Goddess of Peace. 3.
A dramatic poet of Syracuse, who flourished during the reign of
Ptolemy I. 4. A daughter of King Creon of Corinth, whom Jason
married after deserting Medea. 5. A name given to Pluto, Per-
sephone, the Erinnyes, and others. 6. A contracted form of the name
of the king to whose court Thetis sent Achilles in disguise.

The initials form the name of a celebrated Roman poet, and the
finals his masterpiece. sedgwick.

i5 2

THE RIDDLE-BOX.

[DECEMBli

A CHRISTMAS PUZZLE.

The twenty-six numbered designs in the show-window represent as many articles suitable for Christmas gifts, including one or monl
each member of the family. Nos. i and 2 are for grandfather; 3, 4, 6, 12 for grandmother; 5, 7, 8, 9, 10 for mother; 11, 13, 14 for fatlg
15, 16, 17, iS, 23 for sister; 19, 20, 21, 22 for brother; 24 for baby; 25, 26 for the one who is most fond of music. \V hat are the gifts ?

DOUBLE ACROSTIC.

The initials and finals name two bays in the western part of Europe,
i. A title of nobility. 2. One of the United Stales. 3. Part of a
saddle. 4. A monk's hood. 5. A fruit 6. An affirmative.

F. L. o.

MATHEMATICAL PUZZLE.

I am a word of five letters, the sum of which is 157.
My 1, — (my 2, -f- my 4), = my 5 ; my 5, -(- my 3, = £-J of j
j -, my 3, — my 2, X mv 5' = m y x » X ( m Y 2 -f- m >' •»)•

SEDGWICl:'

Ill

THE MINUET.

[Engraved by J. G, Smithwick, Irom a picture by J. E. Millais,]

ST. NICHOLAS.

il. IV. JANUARY, 1877. No. 3.

[Copyright, 1876, by Scribner & Co.]

THE MINUET.

By M. M. D.

Grandma told me all about it.
Told me, so I could n't doubt it,

How she danced — my grandma danced ! — ■

Long ago.
How she held her pretty head.
How her dainty skirt she spread,
How she turned her little toes —
Smiling little human rose ! —

Long ago.

Grandma's hair was bright and sunny;
Dimpled cheeks, too — ah, how funny !
Really quite a pretty girl,

Long ago.
Bless her ! why, she wears a cap,
Grandma does, and takes a nap
Every single day ; and yet
Grandma danced the minuet

Long ago.

Now she sits there, rocking, rocking,
Always knitting Grandpa's stocking —
(Every girl was taught to knit,

Long ago).
Yet her figure is so neat,
And her way so staid and sweet,
I can almost see her now
Bending to her partner's bow,

Long ago.

Grandma says our modern jumping,
Hopping, rushing, whirling, bumping,
' Would have shocked the gentle folk

Long ago.
No — they moved with stately grace,

Vol. IV.— h.

154

A LETTER TO A YOUNG NATURALIST.

fjANU

Everything in proper place,
Gliding slowly forward, then
Slowly courtseying back again,
Long ago.

Modern ways are quite alarming,
Grandma says ; but boys were charming-
Girls and boys, I mean, of course — ■

Long ago.
Bravely modest, grandly shy-
What if all of us should try
Just to feel like those who met
In the graceful minuet

Long ago ?

With the minuet in fashion,
Who could fly into a passion ?

All would wear the calm they wore
Long ago.
In time to come, if I, perchance,
Should tell my grandchild of our dance,
I should really like to say,
; We did it, dear, in some such way,
Long ago."

A LETTER TO A YOUNG NATURALIST.

By William Howitt.

Rome, April 9, 1876.

y dear Young Friend : It gave
me much pleasure to receive your
letter. I am much obliged by your
kind offer of sending me specimens
of American insects and birds, of
which you seem already to have a
promising collection ; but I do not make collections
of any kind of natural history objects. If I can be
called a naturalist at all, it must be a very natural
one, for I never studied any branch of natural his-
tory in books, excepting botany, and only the
botany of the British Isles. That was to me a
great delight and source of health in my early
youth as it led me to range far and wide over the
country, over hills and fields, through woods and
marshes, and along the sea-coasts. But even that
branch of natural history was superseded by other
constant pursuits, and I have never renewed it me-

thodically. Nevertheless, the acquaintance wt
I then, and in still earlier years, made with fen
flowers, grapes, and various forms of vegetable :
remains with me. There are few British pk
that I do not know familiarly, though their sci
tific names I should sometimes have to look
This acquaintance gives me a good guess at in;
species of foreign plants that I see, and adds to
pleasure in the country wherever I am.

As to animals of all sorts, quadrupeds, bipf
reptiles, insects, I have a wide acquaintance vH
them by sight, not by science. The appeararafl
notes, and habits of most British birds, are asM
miliar to me as possible. I never hear a song cfl
twitter of one, as I am walking anywhere, btBS
recognize it as the voice of an old friend, to B /
great astonishment of my human friends. SHa
are the pleasures of an habitual intimacy with is
works of God in this his wonderful world. I fhi§
fore congratulate you on the taste for natural I

877-1

A LETTER TO A YOUNG NATURALIST.

'55

ory, and hope you will, in classifying and preserv-
lg your various specimens, keep alive in your
eart all the poetry of nature connected with these
vnumerable and charming inventions of the Great
lechanist. He must surely be the best naturalist
■ho carries into his cabinet the consciousness of all
re freshness, loveliness, and indescribable harmo-
' ies of the magnificent world in which God has
iven them places to live for our mutual pleasure
nd advantage, — that world which we are too fond
f calling "this wretched world," "this vale of
'ears," and the like.
What a vast and varied field you have in the
.merican continent for your inquiries and acquisi-
ons. I have seen something of the beauties of
our ornithology in Audubon and Wilson, and of
our trees in some handsomely illustrated works,
/hen you have mastered the northern portion of
our immense continent, what a second one there
, swarming with all the forms of life, and such
fe ! I never had but a few days' view of South
merica, but it was to me a glimpse of wonder and
' slight. A land of palms, cocoa-nut trees, bananas,
tangoes and bread-fruits ! The trees, the flowers,
le birds and insects ! Those blue-green butter-
ies, large as my hand, and the margin of their
ings studded, as it were, with jewels, floating
'nid magnolias and a world of other trees, new
■ 1 me, with the quaint chameleons lurking in the
lickets below !

When you have completed the ornithology and

vtomology of total America, there is Australia.

hich by that time will be brought very near to you

• / steam. That, of course, will be a great while

: ;nce, and I shall be glad to think that you will

;tend your researches thither, because you must

: then an old man and will have enjoyed a long

, e of pleasure in the accumulation of knowledge.

; Tn Australia (to say nothing of India and the

■ les of the Southern Ocean) there is a totally new

,:orld of creatures, — the kangaroo, a whole race of

arsupials ; that queer nondescript, the platypus

Prnithorynchus paradoxus) , with a head and bill

, r te a duck, the body of an otter, and a tail like a

aver, which is carnivorous and lays eggs. These

eatures, which are quick as lightning, disappear-

\ S like a flash under water, we yet managed to

oot sometimes, but never found anything in their

omachs but a little fine black mud; probably

-acerated infusoria. The impossibility of furnish-

;'g this food has defeated all attempts to convey

I'em to other countries. There you would find

e swan black ; emus\ ibises, native companions,

sort of tall adjutant or crane, of most comical and

cular habits. The gorgeous lyre-bird and the

wer-bird, which amuses itself not only in building

tower, but of making little inclosures of shining

stones or shells, as children do. You have there
trees occasionally arriving at a height of 500 feet,
and nettles, real urtica, growing into large and
very dangerous trees. As for insects, they are as
the sands of the sea. There is a mole-cricket,
which makes a lid to its hole, with a hinge, and as
you approach ceases its noise, drops the lid, and
shuts itself in. Amongst the oddities, though not
insects, you have fish that hop about on land, — I
have seen them ; and crawfish of a bright red, as
if already boiled. But let me tell you about the
mantis, and the ants. You have no doubt seen the
mantises of South America and India, which are
precisely like leaves, with the leaf ribs and foot
stalks, too ; but the Australian ones that I saw
were different. We caught one with a body like a
straw of about four inches long, and a pair of small
but lovely Psyche-like wings, with rainbow colors.
As we had no chloroform, or anything to kill it
with, we kept it under water for more than twelve
hours. When taken out, as fast as it dried it be-
came lively again as ever. It continued all day
just as lively, although pinned down upon a piece
of bark. At night a mouse ate off its head and the
legs on one side. The next night the mouse ate off
its tail and more legs, but it continued as lively as
ever. On the third day a bird scooped down upon
the table before our tent and carried it away, and
possibly managed to extinguish the vivacious remains
of the mantis in its stomach, but I would not say.

We had in one part of the country a small house-
ant of not half an inch long, that was found on
almost every twig of a bush, or hole of a tree. It
would jump down our backs, when, as often was
the case in hot weather, we had our shirt-necks
open, and would kick and sting away until we had
destroyed him. This ant was an admirable fly-
catcher, and would dart at a fly many yards, and
would strike it with unerring precision. Frequently
it would dart down from the roof of the tent, as I
sat reading, - and strike at a capital letter on my
open book, taking it for a fly. The ants by myr-
iads, and of many species, are always traveling up
and down the Australian trees. I suppose they
puncture the tender shoots at the top and suck the
juices. Probably this is the cause that at a particu-
lar season of the year the manna gum-tree scat-
ters down its manna. As many of these trees are
some hundreds of feet high, the daily journeys of
these ants is considerable, but as the concentric
rings in the stems of these trees make it probable
that some of them have lived for 1.000 years or
more. I expect such armies of ants have been
marching up and down them for the same long
period. It would require a large volume to give
you an idea of the various and showy birds of Aus-
tralia. I mav tell you two little facts.

156

A LETTER TO A YOUNG NATURALIST.

[January

We used to be much amused with the family life
of a gray bird, I believe a sort of gray magpie.
These birds seemed never to produce more than
one young one at a time, but then father and
mother, uncles and aunts, joined in feeding it, and
making a great fuss over it. You could always
know where one of these much-rejoiced-over young
birds was, by the clamor and cackling of the assem-
bled relatives, as of a lot of barn-door fowl.

In once digging for gold, that lay near the sur-
face, we came upon a small bush containing the
nest of a little bird called the " splendid warbler; "
it was full of young ones ; the father, a gay, fine fel-
low, brilliant with a variety of colors, but a very great
coward, scarcely dared come near us, but three or
four brown little birds — I suppose the mother and
her sisters, or eldest daughters — fed the young with-
out caring for us. We were so much amused by
them that we would not disturb the bush till they
had flown, but went on to another place. As soon
as we thought the young ones had flown we
returned to dig up the bush, but a party of Mor-
mons, from California, had saved us that trouble.
We asked them how much gold they found under
the bush, and they said four ounces. Four ounces
at four pounds sterling an ounce. So we had lost
sixteen pounds sterling, not wishing to disturb the
warbler's family ; but we did not regret it, for they
had given us more than that amount of amusement
by their proceedings.

Sir John Lubbock of late years has been study-
ing the habits and instincts of bees and ants. I
am afraid, however, that he has been doing in
entomology what Niebuhr did in history, and rent
away a good deal of fact along with actual myth.
I think that there is a vast deal that is wonderful in
these insects. It always astonishes me to see a
young swarm of bees one day put into a new hive,
and perhaps carried away to a new place ; the next
day fly off far and wide over the fields, load them-
selves with wax and honey, and come back with
the rapidity almost of rays of light — come direct to
the new hive, though it stand among a dozen oth-
ers, without mistake or circumlocution ; dart past,
not only houses among trees, but moving objects; —
pass you as you stand near the hive, hundreds of
them at a time, yet neither strike you nor each
other, though thus concentrating their flight to a
point. Independently of their geometric skill in
constructing their cells, this seems to me marvel-
ous. And if they fly, as Sir John Lubbock sup-
poses, by scent, what noses they must have !

An old friend of mine, an enthusiastic philo-apia-
rian, told me that being at a friend's house one dry
summer, when all the field flowers were nearly
scorched up, he saw thousands of bees busy in a
field of clover then in bloom.

" I wish my bees were here," said my friend.

" Probably they are," replied the gentleman.

" What, at forty miles distance ? "

" Yes," said his friend. " On your return horn
dredge the backs of your bees with flour as the
issue from the hives in the morning, and we sha
see."

This was done, and his friend wrote to hit
directly: -'There are plenty of your white-jackc
bees here in the clover."

But whatever is the fact with bees, ants folio
their noses much more than their eyes. In m|
garden I saw a train of ants ascending an appl
tree ; go up by one track, and descend by anothc
As in ascending they passed between two sma 1
shoots that sprung from the bole, I stopped the
passage with a piece of bark. The ants did n
see this obstruction with their eyes, but ran bum
against it, and stood still, astonished. Soon
crowd of them had thus been suddenly stoppei
and were anxiously searching about for a passag
By various successive starts forward, they eventual
got around the obstruction and reached the trac
on the other side. The line of scent was renewe
and thenceforward, on arriving at the barricad
they went, without a moment's hesitation, by tl
circular track. I then took my penknife and par!
away a piece of the outer bark on the open be
where the ants were descending. The effect v
the same. The scent being taken away, the ar
came to a dead stand, and there was the same co
founded crowd, and the same spasmodic attem[:
to regain the road, which being effected in t
same way, the scent was carried over the shav,
part of the bark, and the train ran on as freely
before.

We have a large black wood-ant in Engla
and probably you have one similar in America,
makes in the woods heaps of small dead twigs,
large as a cart-load. This mound of twigs is a c
of ants, almost one living mass. Turn aside a f
of the outer twigs, and hundreds of ants are m
visible, in a state of great agitation. Put the po
of your stick near them, and they will sit up, a:
sitting in chairs, and bite and fight your st
lustily.

In my teens I went to ramble much about Sh
wood Forest, the scene of Robin Hood's explo
Near the town of Mansfield, on the forest, wa;
wood called Harlowe Wood. In this I saw a 1
of these wood-ants following a track burnt qi
bare, as if by the formic acid of their bodies,
followed this line for about a furlong, to ascert
whither the ants were going. At that distance t
wheeled around and returned to their nest, wit!
any apparent cause for this march that I could
cover. There must, of course, have been a mo

l8 7 7-]

KATINKA.

157

for it, — of food or moisture, or something, — but I
could detect none. Nearly twenty years afterward,
having paid a casual visit to my old haunts, in
crossing this wood, to my astonishment, I came
upon this line of ants proceeding from their nest to
this very same spot, and back again, with as little
visible cause as ever ; and though it is very many
years since that last visit, I feel persuaded that if
that wood be not destroyed, the same line of ants
is at this day making the same march to the same
spot, and thence returning.

Probably the object may be to capture insects
that cross their line of march ; but they never

seemed to pause or quit the exact track, or to show
any disorder, as if engaged in looking out for or
securing prey.

I send these desultory remarks, knowing the in-
terest that a young naturalist takes in the smallest
characteristics of animal life. A son of ours, as a
boy, could tell you every mason-bee's abode in an
old wall where there were hundreds ; and, after-
ward, had a pleasure in. and sympathy with, every
creature that existed near him.

May you live, learn, enjoy, and make known
much of the hidden knowledge of God's humble
creatures. — Your friend, William Howitt.

KATINKA.

(A Russian Story.)

By Kate Brownlee Horton.

'SHE WOULD CATCH IP HER LITTLE SISTER LISA AND RUN HOME.

Katinka was tired, and lonely too. All day ,
mg, and for many days together, she had plied
er distaff busily, drawing out the thread finer and
ner from the great bunches of flax, which she
:rself had gathered and dried, till the birch-bark
isket at her feet was almost filled with firm, well-
laped " twists," and the sticks in the great earthen
pkin, upon which the thread must be wound
"ew fewer and fewer.

The tips of her fingers were sore, and it was dull
work with no one to speak to except her faithful
cat, Dimitri, who was never content when he saw
his mistress working, unless he had a ball of thread
for himself; and as she looked about her cheerless
little room, so lonely now, she thought of the days
when a kind mother had been near to lighten every
duty; and joyous, merry children had been her
companions in all childish sports. She hated the

158

KATINKA,

[Januak

tiresome flax now, but then the happiest days were
spent in the great flax-fields, playing at " hide-and-
seek " up and down the paths the reapers made.
And when the summer showers came pelting down,
how she would catch up her little sister Lisa and
run home with her "pick-a-back," while neighbor
Voscovitch's children laughed and shouted after
her as she ran. Ah, those were happy days ! But
now mother and sister were gone ! Only she and
her father were left in the little home, and she had
to work so hard ! She did wish that her life was
different ; that she was not poor, lonely Katinka,
the peasant maid, any more. Oh ! why could she
not be like the rich Lady Feodorovna instead,
whose father, Count Vassilivitch, owned nearly all
the houses and land from Tver to Torjok, and had
more than three hundred serfs on his estate.

Now, Katinka's father, Ivan Rassaloff, was only
an istroatchick* (sneeze, my dears, and you can
say it nicely), and owned nothing but a rickety
old drosky \ and Todeloff, a sturdy little Cossack
pony, and drove travelers here and there for a few
kopeckst a trip. But he saved money, and Katinka
helped him to earn more ; and one of these days,
when they could sell the beautiful lace flounce, on
which she had been working during all her odd
moments for three years, and which was very nearly
finished, they would be rich indeed. Besides, the
isba (cottage) was not really so bad, and it was all
their own ; and then there was always Dimitri to
talk to, who surely seemed to understand every-
thing she said. So a smile chased away the gather-
ing frown, and this time she looked around the
little room quite contentedly.

Shall I tell you what the isba was like, that you
may know how the poor people live in Russia ? It
was built of balks (great beams or rafters), laid
horizontally one above the other, the ends crossing
at each corner of the building ; and it had a pointed
roof, somewhat like that of a Swiss chalet. Inside,
the chinks were filled with moss and lime, to keep
out the cold. It contained only one room ; but a
great canvas curtain hung from the roof, which by
night divided the room in two, but by day was
drawn aside.

There was a deal table, holding some earthen-
ware pipkins, jars, and a samorar (tea-urn), — for
even the poorest peasants have an urn, and drink
tea at least three times a day ; a deal settee, on
which lay the winter store of flax ; Katinka's dis-
taff, and the curious candlestick which Russian
peasants use. This is a tall wooden upright, fas-
tened to a sort of trough, or hollowed log of birch-
wood, to keep it erect. To the top an iron cross-
bar is attached (which can be raised or lowered at

will), having at the end a small bowl containing c§
and a floating wick, which burns brightly for sever)
hours, and is easily lowered and refilled ; while tl
wooden trough below catches the drip.

But the most curious thing in the room was tm
stove. It was made of sheet-iron, and very largil
with a door at one end, into which whole logs I
wood could be put at once ; it was oblong, and fl -
on the top, like a great black trunk ; and on th
flat top, with the fire smoldering away beneal
him, Ivan always slept at night in winter ; ai 1
sometimes, when it was very cold, Katinka wou \
bring her sheepskin blanket and sleep there toij
Not one Russian isba in fifty contains a bed ; whij
there is a large family, father, mother, and litt
children all crowd upon the top of the stove \
winter, and in summer they roll themselves up
their blankets and sleep outside, by the door !

The lamp was lighted and shone brightly
Katinka, who made quite a pretty picture as si
rested awhile from her work to speak to Dimit
She wore a white chemise with very full, loi
sleeves, and over it a sarafane of red linen with
short boddice and shoulder straps of dark bin
On her head she had tied a gay-colored kerchii
to keep the dust of the flax from her glossy bla
hair, which hung in a single heavy braid far do\
her back. One of these days, if she should man-
she would have to divide it in two braids, and we
a kerchief always.

Her shoes were braided, in a kind of basket-wo
of strips of birch-bark, very pliant and comfortab
though rather clumsy in appearance.

All the day Katinka had been thinking of son
thing which Ivan had told her in the morni
about their neighbor, Nicholas Paloffsky, and
poor, motherless little ones. The mother had be
ill for a long, long time, and Nicholas had spent
he could earn in buying medicines and good h
for her, but they could not save her life. Th
when she died, Nicholas was both father and motl
to the little ones for months ; but, at last, he
fell ill, and now there was no one to assist him.

Besides, he did not own his isba, and, if the r
were not paid the very next day, the starosta (lar
lord) would turn him and his little ones out-of-doo
bitter winter though it was.

That was fearful ! But what could she do
help him ? Suddenly there flashed across her mi
a thought of her beautiful lace flounce, on wh
she had worked till she loved every thread of
and in whose meshes she had woven many a briyj
fancy about the spending of the silver roubles til
would be hers when she sold it. She had intern
to buy a scarlet cusackan (jacket) with gold e

b Drosky-driver, or cab-man. t Drosky, or droitzschka, a four-wheeled pleasure carriage.

I A kopeck is a coin worth about a cent of American money.

»il!77-l

KATINKA.

159

roidery, and a new drosky for her father, so that

is passengers might give him more kopecks for a
titde. But other plans came to her mind now.

Just then, Ivan came home hungry ; and as she
1. listened to prepare his supper of tea and black
(I -ead and raw carrots, and a kind of mushroom

ewed in oil, she almost forgot neighbor Nicholas

hands, and a silver crucifix hanging from his girdle,
who, on reaching the church to which he bade
Ivan drive quickly, gave him his blessing — and
nothing more ! So Ivan's pockets were empty,
and the pony must go without his supper, unless
Katinka had some dried fish for him.

Katinka, who had a tender heart for all animals,

KATINKA AND DIMITRI.

ile waiting on her father, who was always so glad
j'come home to her and his snug, warm room.
( 8ut to-night, for a wonder, he was cross. All
j/ he had waited in the cold, bleak public square
Torjok, beating his arms and feet to keep him-
f warm ; and occasionally, I fear, beating his pa-
nt little pony for the same reason. Not a " fare"
i come near him, except a fat priest, in a purple
c gown and broad-brimmed hat, with long, flow-
; hair and beard, a gold-mounted staff in his

carried a great bowlful of fish out to Todeloff, who
nibbled it eagerly ; for ponies in Russia, especially
those that are brought from Iceland, consider dried
fish a great delicacy, and in winter often live on it
for weeks together. Then she gave him a " good-
night kiss " on the little white spot on his nose,
and he whispered, " Now I don't mind the beatings
I had to day ! " — at least I think he must have
meant to say that when he whinnied so close to
her ear.

i6o

KATINKA.

[Januar

When she went back to the house, Ivan was
already wrapped up in his sheep-skin blanket on
top of the stove, and snoring lustily ; so she lowered
the curtain and crept softly into her little corner
behind it. But she could not sleep, for her mind
was disturbed by thoughts of neighbor Nicholas,
whose little ones perhaps were hungry ; and at last-
she arose, filled and lighted the tall lamp, then
unrolled her precious flounce, and worked steadily
at it till, when morning came, only one little sprig
remained undone, and her doubts as to what she
should do with it were dispelled in the bright sun-
light.

After breakfast, which she made ready as briskly
as though she had slept soundly all night, she said:

" Father, let me be your first fare to-day, and
perhaps I may bring you good luck. Will you
drive me to the Lady Feodorovna's ? "

"What in the world do you want there, Ka-
tinka?" said her father, wonderingly.

" To ask if she will buy my lace," said Katinka.
" She has so many beautiful dresses, surely she
will find a place on one for my flounce."

" Ha ! " said Ivan, " then we will have a feast.
You shall make a cake of white flour and honey,
and we will not eat ' black-brod ' for a month !
But what will we do with so much money, my
child ? "

Katinka hesitated a moment ; then said, shyly :
" Pay Nicholas Paloffsky's rent, and send the Tor-
jok doctor to cure him. May I, father?" she
added, entreatingly, forgetting that the money
would be her own.

" Hum-m-m ! " said Ivan; "we shall see. But
go now and prepare for your drive, for Todeloff
does not like to wait."

Katinka was soon ready. With her sheep-skin
jacket, hat and boots, she did not fear the cold ;
and mounting the drosky, they drove rapidly toward
Count Vassilivitch's beautiful home, not fearing to
leave their little isba alone, for the neighbors all
were honest, and, besides, there was nothing to
steal I

A drive of four versts (about three miles) brought
them to their journey's end, and Katinka's heart
beat anxiously as the old drosky rattled up through
the court-yard to the grand hall-door ; but she
went bravely up to the fine porter, and asked to
see Lady Feodorovna.

" Bosja moia ! '" (bless me) "what do you want
with my lady ? " asked the gorgeous Russ who, in
his crimson and gold livery, serf though he was,
looked scornfully down on free Katinka, in her
poor little sheep-skin jacket.

I think Katinka would scarcely have found cour-
age to answer him, but, luckily, his lady crossed
the hall just then, and seeing Katinka, kindly

beckoned her to enter, leading the way to her ow
especial apartment.

"What do you wish with me?" she askec
kindly. But Katinka was too bewildered by th
splendor on e\ery side to answer as she should.

Truly it appeared like fairy-land to the youn
peasant maid. The room was long and very loftv
the ceiling, one great beautiful picture ; the floe
had no carpet, but was inlaid with different kind
of wood in many curious patterns; the walls we r
covered with blue flowered silk, on which mirroi
and lovely pictures were hung alternately ; whi!
beautiful statues, and luxurious couches covere
with blue damask, added to the elegance and con
fort of the room.

There was no big, clumsy stove to be seen (fc
in the houses of the rich, in a recess in each roonj
is a kind of oven, in which a great wood fire
allowed to smolder all day), but a delicious feelin
of warmth prevailed, and a soft, sweet perfuni
floated on the air.

At last, Katinka's eyes rested on the fair lady
her soft, fleecy gown of white (for even in wintt
Russian ladies wear the thinnest summer dresses i
the house), and she said, softly :

" I think this is heaven, and surely you are lik
an angel ! "

" Not an angel," said Lady Feodorovna, smilinj
"but perhaps a good fairy. Have you a wisl
pretty maid ? "

" Indeed, yes," replied Katinka. " I wish, wis
•wish (for you must always make a wish to a fai
three times) you would buy my lace flounc
See ! " — and she unrolled it hurriedly from out tc
clean linen cloth in which it was wrapped. " It
fair and white, though I have worked on it
three years, and it is all finished but this one litt
sprig. I could not wait for that ; I want the mom
so much. Will you buy it ? "

" What is the price ? " asked the lady, who sa
that it was indeed a beautiful piece of work.

"Ninety roubles" (about seventy-five dollar;'
said Katinka, almost in a whisper, as if she fearn
to name so great a sum aloud, though she knt'
the lace was worth it.

" Why, what will you do with so many roubles i
asked the lady, not curiously, but in such a goo
fairy way, that Katinka said :

" Surely I need not fear to tell you. But it is
long story. Will you kindly listen to it all ? "

"Yes, gladly; sit here," and Feodorovna point
to one of the beautiful blue couches, on the

tre edge of which Katinka sat down timid]

making a very funny picture in her gray sheep-sk:
jacket and scarlet gown. " Now tell me, first, yo
name."

" Katinka Rassaloff, barishna (lady), daughl

877-1

KATINKA.

161

Aif Ivan, peasants from beyond Torjok. Beside us

ives a good man, Nicholas Paloffsky, who is ill

t nd so poor. He has four little children, and many

, day I have divided my supper with them, and

et I fear they are often hungry. The baby cries all

illay, for there is no mother to care for it, and the

iries trouble the poor father, who can do nothing

no help. Besides, unless the rent is paid to-morrow,

rhey must leave their isba. Think of that, lady ! —

bio home in this bitter winter weather ! no shelter

p]r the baby ! Ah, buy my lace, that 1 may help

hem ! " replied Katinka, earnestly.

i Without speaking, Lady Feodorovna rose and

that he could not get it shut in time to say a word,
but opened his eyes instead to keep it company,
and stood looking after her till she was seated in
the drosky. Then Ivan "flicked" Todcloff, who
kicked up his heels and rattled out of the court-
yard in fine style. When they were out of sight,
the porter found he could say " bosja moia " again,
so he said it ; and feeling much relieved, was grad-
ually getting back to his usual dignified manner,
when his lady came tripping down the stairs,
wrapped in a beautiful long sable mantle, bidding
him order her sledge, and one for her maid, to be
brought to the door at once.

ON THE WAV TO POLOFFSKY S COTTAGE.

(

nrent to a beautiful cabinet, unlocked the door with
i tiny gold key, which was suspended by a chain
:) her girdle, took out a roll of silver roubles, and
..id them in Katinka's lap.
"There," said she, "are one hundred roubles,
.re you content ? "

', Katinka took the soft white hand in hers and

«issed it, while such a happy smile lighted up her

.ce that the " good fairy " needed no other answer.

fc "Hasten away, Katinka," she said; "perhaps

: Ju may see me soon again."

Katinka courtesied deeply, then almost flew out

the great hall-door, so startling the grand porter,

- ho had his mouth wide open ready to scold her,

When the sledges were brought, Lady Feodo-
rovna entered hers and drew the soft, white bear-
skin robe around her, while her maid threw over
her fur hood a fine, fleecy scarf of white wool.
Then the maid put numberless packages, small
and great, into the foot of the other sledge, leaving
only just room to put herself in afterward.

While they are waiting there, I must tell you
what Lady Feodorovna's sledge was like. It was
built something like our "one seat Boston cutters,"
except that the back was higher, with a carved
wooden ornament on top ; there was no *' dash-
board," but the runners came far up in a curve at
the front, and where they joined was another splen-

l62

KATINKA.

[Januam

did ornament of wood gilded, and surmounted by
a gilded eagle with outspread wings.

The body of the sledge was of rosewood, and in
the front was a beautiful painting of Cupid, the lit-
tle "love-god," and his mamma. The other sledge,
which had a silver swan at the front, was not quite
so fine, though the shape was the same.

There were no horses to draw these sledges,
but behind each stood a servant in fur jacket,
cap and boots, with a pair of skates hung over his
shoulder.

" I wish to go to the isba of Paloffsky, the peas-
ant, beyond Torjok ; we will go the shorter way,
by the river," said Lady Feodorovna. " Hasten ! "

Then the servants each gave a great push, and
the sledges started off so quickly and lightly down
the slope to the river that they could scarcely keep
up with them. When they reached the banks of
the Blankow, which flowed past the Count's grounds,
and was frozen over for miles, the servants stooped
and put on their skates, binding them by long
straps over their feet and round and round their
ankles. Then they started down the river, and,
oh ! how they flew ! while the sledges, with their
gorgeous birds, fairly sparkled in the sunlight.

Sooner almost than I can tell it they had reached
their journey's end ; the skates were unstrapped,
and the sledges drawn up the bank to the door of
the little isba, which Lady Feodorovna entered, fol-
lowed by the maid with the bundles.

A sad picture met their eyes. Poor Nicholas sat
on a bench by the stove, wrapped up in his sheep-
skin blanket, looking so pale and thin that he
scarcely seemed alive ; on his knee lay the hungry
baby, biting his little fist because he had nothing
else to bite, while on the floor beside him sat a lit-
tle three-year-old fellow crying bitterly, whom a
sad little elder sister was trying to comfort.

Nicholas looked up as the door opened, but did
not speak, as the strange lady advanced, and bade
her maid open the packages and put their contents
on the table. How the children stared ! The little
one stopped crying and crept up to the table, fol-
lowed shyly by his sister. Then the maid put a
dainty white bread roll in each little hand. Then
she took the baby gently from off the poor, tired
father's knee, and gave it spoonful after spoonful
of sweet, pure milk, till its little pinched cheeks
seemed fairly to grow full and rosy, and it gave a
satisfied little ''coo — o," that would have done
your hearts good to hear.

Meanwhile, Lady Feodorovna went up to Nicho-
las and said, softly :

" Look at your little ones ! they are happy now !
Can you not rouse up and drink this good bowl of
soup ? It is warm yet, and will do you good. Drink,
then I will tell you some good news."

Nicholas took the bowl which she held towart
him, but his hand trembled so that it would hav
fallen if she had not herself held it to his lips. A
he tasted the warm, nourishing soup, new lit
seemed to come to him, and he grasped the bou
eagerly, drinking till the last drop was gone, then
looking up with a grateful smile, he said, simply

" Ah ! we were so hungry, my little ones and I
Thanks, barishna."

" Now for my good news ! " said the lad)
" Here is the money for your rent; and here a
ten roubles more, for clothes for your little ones
The food there is sufficient for to-day ; to-morro
I will send you more. Do not thank me," sh
added, as Nicholas tried to speak; "you mu:
thank Katinka Rassaloff for it all."

Just then a great noise was heard outside, an
little Todelofif came prancing merrily up to In
door, shaking his head and rattling the little bel
on his donga (the great wooden arch that all Ru
sian horses have attached to their collars), i
proudly as if he had the finest drosky in all S
Petersburg behind him.

Katinka jumped quickly down, and entering tr
little isba, stood fairly speechless at seeing Lac
Feodorovna, whom she had left so shortly before i
her own beautiful home.

"Ah, Katinka ! I have stolen a march on you
said the good fairy. "There is nothing you a
do here."

" Is there not ? " said Katinka. "See! here
the sfarosta's receipt for a year's rent, and there
turning toward the door as a venerable old m;
entered, "is the Torjok doctor, who has come
make neighbor Nicholas well."

I must tell you what the doctor was like, r
wore a long, fur coat with wide sleeves, fur boot
and a great pair of fur gloves, so that he look
almost like a big bear standing up. He wore que
blue spectacles, and from under a little black \
vet cap, long, silky, white hair fell over his shot
ders, and his white beard nearly reached to
waist.

The doctor walked up to Nicholas, put his han
on his knees, stooped and looked gravely at hit
then rising, turned sharply to Katinka, saying:

"There is no sick one here! Why did y<
bring me so far for nothing? But it is two roublf
all the same."

"Here are the roubles," said Katinka, "and
am very glad we do not want you ; " which was n
at all polite of her.

Then, too, Ivan had driven off in search of p;
sengers, so the poor doctor had to walk nearl)
verst (about three-fourths of a mile), through' t
snow, back to Torjok, which made him growl li
a real bear all the way.

KATINKA.

163

Katinka went shyly up to Nicholas, who was
wning crossly at her, and said :
•'Are you angry with me? Do not frown so, I
y. Well, frown if you will ! the children do not,
i I did it all for them ; I love them ! " and she
ight up baby Demetrius and buried her face in
curly hair to hide a tear that would come ; for
J felt grieved that Nicholas did not thank her,
:n with a smile, for what she had done.
When she looked up Lady Feodorovna and her
id were gone, and Nicholas stood before her
ding little Noviska by one hand, while two-year-
[ Tottleben (that is a real Russian name, though
:haps you did not know it), clung to his knee,
i' Katinka," said Nicholas, gently, "now I can
Ink you with all my heart, though I cannot find
rds to speak my thanks. Let the children kiss
1 for it all ; that is best."

Catinka kissed the children heartily, then she
| down the baby and opened the door, but Nich-

Then Katinka hastened to brush her pretty hair,
and put on her best sarafane (dress), with the scar-
let embroidered boddice and straps, and was all
ready when Ivan came in, to tell him of their invi-
tation, and help him make his toilet.

" I must have my hair cut," said Ivan, seating
himself on a bench, while Katinka tied a band
around his head, fastening it over his forehead,
then got a great pair of shears and cut his hair
straight round by the band. (Even the barbers
always cut by these bands, and I do not think one
of them could have done it better.) Then, like a
good little Russian daughter that she was, Katinka
took a bit of tallow candle and rubbed it on her
father's hair to keep it smooth, belted down his
gray flannel blouse, and handed him his sheepskin
jacket, with a hint that it was high time for them
to be off.

When the guests entered his isba, Nicholas
kissed Ivan, — for that is always the custom be-

'■

THE FEAST.

i's face was sober then, though his eyes still
led as he said :

1 Come back to tea, Katinka, and bring Ivan
1, and our young neighbor Alexis, who often is
i'gry, we will have a feast of all these good
4gs."

"Horro sha " (very well), said Katinka, then ran
':kly home.

limitri met her at the door, crying piteously.
( Poor pussy ! " cried Katinka; ''you have had
ling to eat all day ! What a shame ! "
.1 Miauw ! " said Dimitri to that.

Never mind, pussy ; you shall have all my sup-

and father's too, for we are invited out to tea,
,nust not eat anything now."

Miauw, miauw," said pussy to that, and scamp-
I away to his bowl to be all ready for his fish,

milk, and sour cabbage soup (think of that for
iss ! but he liked it), that he knew was coming.

tween Russian men who are friends, — then he
called to Alexis :

"Heads up, my boy! and help me with the
supper."

Alexis, who was turning somersaults in his joy,
came right side up with a spring, and soon the feast
was on the table, and the four wooden benches
drawn up around it.

Ivan and Nicholas had each a bench for himself;
Alexis sat beside Katinka, while Noviska and Tot-
tleben were placed on the remaining bench.

Katinka had wrapped baby Demetrius up in his
little lamb-skin blanket, and laid him on the top of
the stove, where he fell asleep while she was patting
his soft cheek.

What appetites they all had ! and how quickly the
good things disappeared! wine-soup and grouse;
cheese-cakes and honey ; white rolls and sweet
cream cakes (" Charlotte de Russe" perhaps — what

164

BUDGES STORY OF THE CENTENNIAL.

[Janu

do you think?) vanished almost as if by magic, till
at last there was only a bowl of cream left. Alexis
— who had acted as waiter, removing all the empty
dishes in turn — placed this in the middle of the
table, giving to each one a birch-wood spoon and
refilling the glasses with tea ; then he sat down by
Katinka again at the plain uncovered table.

(Do you know anything about Russian tea, chil-
dren ? It is made very strong and is drunk always
from glasses instead of cups, and so hot that, it
would bring tears from the eyes of any one but a
Russian. Milk is not used ; a slice of lemon instead
floats on the top. Sugar is never put in the glass,
but tea-drinkers hold a lump between their teeth,
and then drink the tea through the sugar ! Even
very little children are given strong tea to drink as

soon as they have teeth to hold the sugar, arid tl
seem to thrive on it.)

There was much to talk about. Nicholas hai
very, very hard time in persuading Katinka to ta
the rent money which the grand lady had left,
which he protested he no longer needed, since
landlord was paid, and he already felt well enoi
to work. Katinka, in her turn, had to laugh
the jokes of Alexis, who was really a funny f
when he was not hungry ; Tottleben had to sim
funny little child-song ; and Ivan had to tell Nic
las of Todeloff's wonderful ways.

And here we must leave them — a happy, grate
party, though Nicholas still looked pale and feel
and the company-boy had eaten so tremendoi
that Ivan still was staring at him with astonishme

BUDGE'S STORY OF THE CENTENNIAL.

By the Author of " Helen's Babies."

H, Toddie, — where do you think
I 've been ? I Ye been to the
Centennial ! Papa woke me up
when it was all dark, and we
rode in railroad-cars and horse-
cars before it was light ; that 's
the way men do, Tod, an' it 's
lots of fun. My ! did n't I do
lots of railroad-riding before I
got to the Centennial ! An' all
along the road I saw piles of big
sticks laid crosswise ever so nice,
so they looked just like the picture in the big Bible
of the altar that Abraham put Isaac on, you know,
and I thought they was altars, an' after I thought
about what lots of little boys there must be going
to be burned up in that country, and asked papa
about it, he said they was n't altars at all, but only
just piles of railroad ties — was n't it too bad ! And
I crossed the Delaware at Trenton, too, just like
George Washington, but 't was n't a bit like the
pictures in the history-book that papa reads out of,
and nobody there had on hats a bit like Washing-
ton's.

But I tell you the Centennial was nice ; every
little while we 'd come right up to a place where
they sold pop-corn balls, and they made 'em as

easy — why, a little thing went down, an' a 1
thing came up, and there was a pop-corn ball
in a second. An' then they made people pay
cents for 'cm ! I think 't was real mean ; / vj
a hundred times that much for a penny wht
keep my clothes clean all day.

But, oh, if you only could see the big engin
Machinery Hall ! I don't see how the Lord c,
do more than that engine; itturnsal] sorts of wl
and machines, an' don't make a bit of noise al
it, an' it don't ever get tired. An' the water —
if we lived in Machinery Hall I guess papa woul
ever scold us for leaving faucets open an' wa
water, for there 's dozens of great big pipes
don't do anything but spout out water. An' t
was a whole lot of locomotives, but they hai
any men in 'em, so you could walk around 'en
look at 'em without anybody sizzin' steam or.
you.

An' do you know, papa says all the stearr
gines and locomotives in the world began by a
Watts boy playing with the tea-kettle on his n
ma's stove ; he saw that when there got to be
of steam inside of the kettle, it pushed the top
an' that little boy thought to himself, Why coul
steam push up something that was useful ? B
we was to go in the kitchen an' see what the

/■)

BUDGE S STORY OF THE CENTENNIAL.

165

tie would do, then Bridget would say, " Ah, go
y an' don't ye be meddlin' wid fings." I guess
world was a nicer place for boys when that little
itts boy was alive.

was awful disappointed at the Centennial,
ugh ; 1 thought there 'd be lots of color there,
my centennial garters is all color, — red, an'
,te, an' blue, an' nothin' else but Inja-rubber,
the houses was most all just the color of mud-
s, except Aggerycultural Hall, an' the top of
t was only green, an' I don't think that 's a very
tty color. It was nicer inside of the houses,
i.ugh ; there was one of them that papa said had
re than twenty-two miles of walks in it; I guess
re was, cos we was in it more than an hour, an'
h funny things ! You ought to see a mummy,
1, — I guess you would n't ever want to die after
t, but papa said their spirits was n't in 'em any
re, — I should n't think they would be, if they
ited to look nice. You know mamma's opal
; ? — well, papa lifted me up and showed me the
jest opal in the world, and 't was nearly as pretty
he inside of our big sea-shell,
know what you 'd have liked, — there was a
ure of Goliath, an' David had chopped his head
in' he was a-holdin' it up, — I think he ought to
e had his head chopped off if he looked as flor-
as that. An' I saw Circe, and the pigs all
baling to her to turn 'em back into men again,
really believe I heard 'em squeal, — an' Circe
sat there lookin' like Bridget does when she
it give us more cake. It made me feel dreadful
riink there was men inside of those pigs,
ut what bothered me was, every once in a while
(would come to a place where they sold cakes,
then papa would hurry right past ; I kept show-
him the cakes, but he would go along, and he
just the same thing at the places where they
le candy, only he stopped at one place where
" was making chocolate candy, an' grindin' the
- -:olate all up so that it looked like mud, an' he
, "Isn't that disgustin'?" Well, it didn't
' very nice.

there was a whole lot of things from Egypt,

re Joseph and Moses lived, you know, and all

ind the wall was pictures of houses in Egypt,

:.. asked papa which of 'em Pharaoh lived in, an'

;» two or three people close to us looked at me

.aughed out loud, an' I asked papa what they

hed for, an' he said he guessed it was because

Iked so loud ; I do think little boys have an

il lot of bothers in this world, an' big people

real ugly to 'em ; but papa took me away from

1, an' I got some candy at last, an' I think

s about time.

tien we saw lots of animals, an' birds, an' fishes,
they was n't alive, an' I was walkin' along

thinkin' that I wished we could see somebody we
knew, when all of a sudden I saw a turtle, just like
ours. I just screamed right out, an' I liked to have
cried, I was so glad. That was in the Gov'ment
Building, I believe papa called it; an' I saw all the
kinds of things they kill people with in wars, an' a
man on a horse that was just like papa was when
he was a soldier, — I guess you would n't want to
run up to him an' ask him what he 'd brought you,
he looked so awful. An' just outside the door of
that house was a big god like the heathens make
an' pray to. I should think they would keep him
out-of-doors, he was so awful ugly — why, I would n't
say my prayers to him if I did n't ever get anything.
I asked papa if the god was standin' there while he
made a heaven for himself, an' papa said I 'd have
to ask Mr. Huxley about that; I don't know any
Mr. Huxley, do you ?

Then we saw the Japanese things, — I knew them
right away, cos they always look like things that
you don't ever see anywhere else. One of the
things was a man sittin' on a cow, an' papa read a
card hangin' on it — " Shoki, punisher of imps and
bad boys," an' then he said, " You 'd better behave
yourself. Budge, for that old chap is looking for
you." I did n't think he looked shockey a bit, an'
I just told papa so, and then a lady laughed an'
said I was a smart boy, as if it was anything very
smart not to be afraid of a little old iron man on
an iron cow !

You just ought to see how people looks inside of
'em ; I saw some people that was cutted open, only
they wasn't real people, but just made of mortar.
You 'd just get tired to see what lots of funny places
bread an' butter an' apples have to go in us before
they turn into little boy, and how there 's four little
boxes in our hearts that keep openin' an' shuttin'
lots of times every minute without the hinges ever
comin' loose an' lettin' the covers drop off, like they
do in our toy-boxes.

You never saw such lots of pictures; there was
rooms, an' rooms, an' rooms, an' each one of them
was as lovely as Mr. Brown's barn was when the
circus pictures was all over it. There was one big
picture that papa said was all about a lady named
Cornaro, that was stole away from her home, and
the people that stole her tried to make her happy
by givin' her nice things, but the picture looked so
much like a lovely big rug that I wanted to get up
there an' lie down an' roll on it. An' then there
was the <ra»fullest picture of a whole lot of little
boys — not so very little, either — that was crucified
to keep the Lord from bein' angry. I tell you, I
just said a little prayer right away, an' told the Lord
that I was glad / was n't a little boy then, if that
was the kind of things they done to 'em. I guess
I know what people mean now, when they say

1 66

THE STARS FOR JANUARY.

[Janu*

they 've got the blues, cos that dreadful picture was
blue all over.

I think comin' home was about as nice as any-
thing, though, cos boys kept comin' through the
cars with bananas, an' figs, an' peanuts, an' apples,
an' cakes, an' papa bought me everything I wanted,
an' a lovely lady sat in the seat with us an' told
about a picture of Columbus's sailors kneelin' down
an' beggin' him to forgive 'em for bein' so bad,
just like mamma reads to us out of the history-
book. An' then another lady sat in the seat with
us, but she was n't so nice, cos she said " Sonton-
nial," — / think big folks ought to know how to talk
plainer than that. An' papa said he 'd go out a
minute or two, an' I was thinkin' what a great trav-
eler I was gettin' to be, an' how I knew most every-
thing now I 'd been to the Centennial, an' how I
was smart enough to be a big man right away, an'
what lots of things I : d do, and how I 'd have every-

thing nice I wanted to, like big men do, when
at once I got afraid we 'd gone off an' left papa,
then I got to be a little boy right away again, at
cried, an' when papa got back I just jumped in
lap an' thought I 'd rather stay a little boy.

I 'm awful sorry you was n't there, too, Tod,
papa said such a little boy as you could n't do
much walkin'. An' I asked papa when there 'd
one that you 'd be big enough to go to, and
said, " Not for a hundred years." Gracious Pet<
I knew you 'd be dead before then. But yo
see a centennial even if you die, cos the Lord
everything nice in heaven, an' centennials are ni
so there '11 be lots of 'em there, an' you wont
tired a bit lookin' at 'em, an' I don't believe I
angels '11 laugh at you when you say things,
you wont be dragged past all the cake and can,
places, so I guess you '11 have a good time, ever
you was n't with us.

THE STARS FOR JANUARY.
By Richard A. Proctor.

Introduction.

It is very pleasant to know the stars — to be able,
like Milton's hermit, to

" Sit and rightly spell
Of every star that heaven doth show."

And it is not at all difficult to learn all the chief
star-groups, — or constellations, as they are called, —
if only the learner goes properly to work. Perhaps
I ought rather to say, if the teacher goes properly
to work. I remember, when I was a boy about
twelve years old, being very much perplexed by the
books of astronomy, and the star-charts, from which
I tried to learn the stars. There was "Bonny-
castle's Astronomy," with a very pretty picture of
one constellation, — Andromeda, — in which, if one
looked very carefully, one could perceive stars,
though these were nearly lost in the carefully
shaded picture of the Chained Lady herself. An-
other book which I found in my father's library
showed a series of neat pictures of all the chief
constellations, but gave no clear information as to
their whereabouts. And the charts which I found

were not at all easy to understand, being, in fa
the usual star-charts, which give no informat;

whatever about the places of star-groups on the &
of any place or at any time. So that it was only I

7-1

THE STARS FOR JANUARY

167

1 rking my way from the Great Bear to constella-
ns close by it, then to others close by these, and
so on, that I slowly learned the
chief star-groups. The object
of the series of maps which are
now about to be given, month
by month (in pairs), is to re-
move this difficulty for the young
astronomers of America. The
maps are made specially for
America, and for the particular
month to which each pair be-
longs. For instance, they would
FIG ' 2 ' not be right for London (as, in-

:d, some writing on each map shows) ; nor
uld the January maps which appear in the pres-
. number of this magazine be of the least use for
le or July.

The two maps printed on pages 168 and 169
)\v what stars can be seen toward the north, and
at stars toward the south, at a certain convenient
Lir during every night in January. This hour
•ies, night by night. On January 1st, the hour
which the stars shown in these maps can be
n in the position shown will be about a quarter
it nine in the evening ; on January 2, about
ven minutes past nine ; on January 3, about
en minutes past nine, and so on earlier and
lier each night : on January 5, at nine ; Jan-
y 8, at a quarter to nine ; January 12, half past
ht; January 16, a quarter past eight ; January
eight o'clock ; January 23, a quarter to eight ;
mary 27, half past seven; and January 31, a
irter past seven.

iefore describing the maps for the month, it will
well for me to note that the black part of each
p shows the sky as it would be seen (toward the
th in Map I., toward the south in Map II.) by
ervers living in Philadelphia or in the same
tude. This is nearly correct (quite sufficiently
for the purpose of these maps) for New York,
Louis, Washington, Cincinnati, and all places
or nearly on the same latitude as any of those
es. The horizon for Boston, Chicago, and other
:es nearly in that latitude, is shown below the
izon of Philadelphia in the northern map, and
ve that horizon in the southern map. The
izon for Louisville, and places nearly in the same
:ude, is shown above the horizon of Philadelphia
he northern map, and below that horizon in the
thern map. The horizon of New Orleans forms
lower limit of the southern map, and is seen in
northern map high above the horizon of Boston.
, tly, to show the young American astronomer
J ' notably American skies differ from English,
t horizon of London is shown below the lower
1 t of the northern map, and high above the

horizon of Boston in the southern map. The point
overhead, of course, varies just as the horizon varies.
Its position for Philadelphia and Boston is shown
in each map ; its position for London (England) in
the northern map, and for New Orleans in the
southern.

In each map the Latin names of the constella-
tions are given ; but in the description of each map
the English names will be given, and a few re-
marks on each constellation. The Greek letters
used by astronomers are also given ; and the young
learner who may not happen to know the Greek
alphabet, will do well to learn the names of the
Greek letters, as follows :

a is callec

Alpha

i' is ca

lied Nu

j3 i:

Beta

£ /

7 "

Gamma

' Omicron

6 "

Delta

n '

e "

Epsilon

Rho

C "

Zeta

c '

' Sigma

V "

Eta

T '

Tau

e "

Theta

I' '

Upsilon

Iota

Phi

Kappa

Chi (Ki)

7. "

Lambda

V- '

Psi

(j " '

Omega

Most of the bright stars have proper names,
chiefly derived from the Arabic. Many of these
will be mentioned as our survey proceeds.

Looking northward, we see that Draco, " the
dragon," has usurped the region due north imme-
diately under Ursa Minor, the " little bear." The
full proportions of the dragon are now clearly and
conveniently shown, except in the southern parts
of the L'nited States, — for the horizon of New

i68

THE STARS FOR JANUARY.

[jANUAir

Orleans conceals from view the two bright stars y
and /?, which anciently formed the head of the
great monster. In those modern maps which show
the constellation figures, the dragon is represented
differently, and generally somewhat as in Fig. I
(knots and all). But you cannot imagine the stars

of familiar objects out of the stars; but this is ce
tainly a mistake, for I know that when I was a lac
and before I had learned to associate the stars wit
the constellations at present in use, I used to in
agine among the stars the figures of such objects ;
I was most familiar with. In the constellation i

is thepoint overhead ' er _ o is thepoint overAead for f/ie
forthe MtudeofI7iilad«^~-~~ T~ xMAMAaifjfi

-£ Staraf/stifairsS:: ^ •> < I to ff «/ ■■ ■' \s ra rof2ndAfaf^.

•

PERS-EUs X

|r c

«« ?&

:| C ^ sol

CE.PHE.US-

aJPoIeStark.

T URSA
! MINOR.

A. Vr?ea/i& .

<. j Horizon
JL2 WBr/ftms

boote;

, ;ii ,, ; . ' ||| [ Lgo J/0//

'V--*'

Jforizon of Zondon (E?ny.)
T/ieJYorr/iernSkrat/O ?uDec.2/ ; at -9pm San S.-and ntS r m. <fan 20.

to form a dragon, or snake, in that way. Now we
may be sure that the ancients, when they called a
group of stars by any name, really imagined some
resemblance between the star-group and the figure
after which they named it. I have heard it said
that the liveliest imagination cannot form figures

the Swan, I saw a capital kite (it is there to tl
day). In the Great Bear, I saw the figure of a t
very common at that time in England, representi
a monkey that passed over the top of a pole. T
three stars forming the handle of the Dipper (7
and f) made the tail of the monkey ; and if y

•177-1

THE STARS FOR JANUARY

169

10k at the Dipper in the position it now occupies
the early evening, you will readily see the figure
a climbing monkey. In Perseus I could see a

irland of flowers such as my sisters used to make.

rion was a climbing giant when rising, but took

ie attitude of a giant going down hill as he passed

groups really seemed pictured in the heavens. Add
to this the consideration that it would not be among
the stars overhead, but among those toward the
horizon, that they would imagine such shapes, and
I think we can understand where and how they saw
a dragon in the stars shown in the lower part of our

is t/ie'point overhead ' u y erheact ut/te'pointorerheadjrort/ie

fort/telatitudcoff/u/ad 1

I^Starof/stMag
'■ 1.. ,,Jrd «

•MBostm Otirhr%aMems

W. ^\^ y£ %_L :r -'" ^ AR,E \

(p'% "• . 63" ~~~_ .'-

1 V-___ i. fl TAURUS . -. / ->? \\ J :,

o;rion >^' ;. 7 ■ • o^ 05

d .•;■..■ ■«■>■■ 4.' :

.-- -7. 1 i

\+£/. ' ; ■— Jfor.ofXon

Horizon

Boston -

PJiitad'

Zoutsvili

r ■ / Horizon

";" ■ IfoiHzon of JSTew Orleans ^ yl -

TJie Southern Styai '/OpviBec 2/ ; at SpuJaa^andatd '?M.Jan20

;r to the west. In the Serpent-Bearer and Ser- northern map. It was not such a nondescript as

it I saw a monstrous sword, shaped like the Fig. 1 which they saw, but a really snake-like fig-

ved saber which Saladin wielded ; and so forth, ure ; and, for my own part, I have no doubt what-

doubt, in the infancy of astronomy, or perhaps ever that the stars d and y were the eyes of the

the world itself, men were fanciful in the same dragon they imagined, and that its head was pict-

y, and the figures they assigned to the star- ured in their imagination somewhat as shown in
VOL. IV. — 12.

170

THE STARS FOR JANUARY.

[JANUA;

Fig. 2.* On referring to the northern map, you
will see that I have borrowed a star from Hercules
to make the snake's head complete. But that does
not trouble my mind in the least. The idea of
separating the constellations one from another was
a much later one than that of merely naming the
more remarkable star-groups. If one set of stars
seemed to resemble any object, and another set to
resemble another object, I think the corresponding
names would have been given even though some
stars of one set were included within the other set.
In fact, I think this very constellation of the Dragon
seems to me to show that our modern constellation
figures have been largely reduced in extent. When
/ look northward at the Dragon placed as in the
northern map, I see not a mere snake with his
head as in Fig. 2, but a monstrous winged serpent,
as in Fig. 3 ; only, to make the figure complete, I
have to take in a large piece from the Little Bear.
The stars thus borrowed make a great wing for the
dragon ; the stars <o, V, 15, etc., of the dragon make
another wing ; and the neck, body, and tail run
from f through r/, H, 1 and a to X

You may, perhaps, think that it matters very
little what figures the ancients really imagined
among the stars. But you will be disposed to think
differently when I mention that the supposed want
of resemblance now between the star-groups and
the figures assigned to them, has led some to form
the bold idea that there was once a strong resem-
blance, but that some stars have gone out, others
have shone forth more strongly or are altogether
new, and that thus the resemblance has been de-
stroyed. When we remember that our sun is only
one among the vast number of suns, it becomes
rather a serious matter for the inhabitants of the
earth if so many suns have really changed. For,
in that case, our sun may soon change in his turn,
and either broil us up with excess of heat, or leave
us to perish miserably from "extremity of cold.
However, I think the explanation which I have-
given shows that the resemblance formerly im-
agined still remains, and that it is only because
modern astronomy has docked the dimensions of
the old figures that they no longer correspond with
their names.

Above the Dragon we see the Lesser Bear, the
two guardians of the pole, ji and 7, having swung
round a little past the lowest part of their circuit.
Approaching the north from the left are the stars
of Cepheus, which will in a month or two be more
favorably placed for study. Notice the glory of the
" milky way " overhead. Looking that way, also,
the very bright star Capella will attract your notice.
It belongs to the constellation Auriga, or "the

charioteer." There is a nearly vacant space 1
tween Auriga and Ursa Minor, which seems
show that in that direction the system of stars j
which our sun belongs is not so richly strewn wi
suns as elsewhere. And although, when a telesco
is turned toward this region, hundreds and tho
sands of stars are brought into view, yet not neai
so many are seen as when the same telescope
directed toward Perseus or Cassiopeia.

And now turning our back upon the pole-st;
let us look toward the south. A month ago,
" great whale," Cetus, occupied the greater part
the southern mid-sky ; but now (at the same hou
that constellation has passed away westward (wht
it can still be seen), and the mighty river Eridan
occupies nearly the whole space between the eqi
tor and the southern horizon. This constellation
a great deal too large ; it has not room to tr
itself. Observe how poor Bayer (the astronon
who first gave to the stars of each constellation
letters of the Greek alphabet) was perplexed
the large number of stars he had to deal wi'
There are seven T'aus (in reality there are nine, 1
the other two are small), and five Upsilons
shown (out of seven), while several stars wh:
ought to have received their proper Greek lette
have been only numbered.

Above Eridanus is the fine constellation Taur
or "the bull," belonging to the zodiacal twe
which mark the road-way of the sun and plane
The sun's path, or ecliptic, is marked on the m
the portion shown being that which he traverse;
May and June. The symbol II represents the s:
of " the twins," the sun entering that sign, on
course toward the left shown by the arrow, ab
the 2 1st of May — which is, therefore, not the ti;
to look for Taurus or the Pleiades, seeing that
sun is shining in the midst of their region of
heavens. The sign of Gemini, or " the twins," u
formerly to agree with the constellation of
twins," but now, as the map shows, falls u{
Taurus.

The group of stars called the Pleiades is one
the most interesting objects in the heavens,
former times they were thought to exert very :
portant influences on the weather, probably beca
when the sun was in Taurus, which then coi
sponded with the end of April, it was a time wltti
all nature seemed to spring into activity. Admil
Smyth says that the passage in Job, translate
"Canst thou bind the sweet influences of Jki
Pleiades, or loose the bands of Orion ? " etc. , shod
be rendered thus :

" Canst thou shut up the delightful teemings of Chimah ?
Or the contractions of Chesil canst thou open ? "

' Aratus, in describing the constellations, speaks of the Dragon as "with eyes oblique retorted, that askant cast gleaming fire.'

h??-]

HIS OWN MASTER.

171

himah representing Taurus, or the constellation

xupied by the sun (in Job's time) in spring (April

nd May) : while Chesil is not Orion, but Scorpio,

he constellation which in Job's time was occupied

y the sun in autumn (October and November).

is interesting to notice the ancients thus regard-

! ; ig the stellar influences, as exerted, not when the

l-ars in question are visible in the night-time, but

I hen their rays are combined with those of the

I'm, which also was the way in which astrologers

)"garded the stars. Taurus now shines highest in

l?ie skies at midnight toward the end of Novem-

":r ; but in Job's time, six or seven weeks earlier.

esiod, speaking of their return to the night skies

ter being lost in the sun's rays, which in his day

ould be in early autumn, says :

" There is a time when forty clays they lie,
And forty nights, concenl'd from human eye;
But in the course of the revolving year,
When the swain sharps the scythe, again appear."

With the telescope, more than two hundred stars
can be seen in this group. To ordinary vision, six
only are said to be visible. Yet many persons see
seven, not a few can see nine or ten, and Kepler
tells us that Moestlin could count no less than four-
teen stars, without telescopic aid.

The bright and somewhat ruddy star Aldebaran
is in the head of " the bull," formed by the closely
clustering group between Aldebaran, e and y. This
group is called the Hyades, from a Greek word
signifying rain, the influence of these stars being-
considered showery. The two stars : i and f form
the tips of the bull's horns.

Facing the bull, we see on the left the glorious
constellation Orion. But this constellation is far
too important to be dealt with in the short space
now left me ; and therefore I must defer my ac-
count of this splendid group to next month, when,
at the hours selected for our evening observations,
he shines in full glory upon the meridian.

HIS OWN MASTER.
By J. T. Trowbridge.

Chapter V

PINKEY MAKES A SUDDEN MOVE.

THE pleasant excitement of the auction passed

th the afternoon, and with the approach of even-

' I came more serious thoughts to Jacob.

Nearly everything had by that time been removed

m the house, and he felt that he no longer had

home. Friend David had led away the cow.

' m men were lifting his aunt's bureau into a

gon at the gate. Another was ruthlessly cutting

by the roots the corn which the boy had planted

id hoed that summer, in the pleasant anticipation

! roasted ears in August. The ears were not yet

1 ge enough to eat, and the whole must go for

-der. The half-sized potatoes would also have

be dug; for everything left growing in the gar-

r when he gave up the cottage would belong to

: owner. The small price which these things

lught at auction had not troubled him, but it

" de him wince to see so much of his summers

rk rudely swept away.

\lphonse, who had stood at the gate, whittling
tick, while the men were loading up the furni-
e, now returned to the door where Jacob was
omily surveying the scene of desolation.

"Jacob, my boy," cried the professor, gayly, "I
have whittled out another idea."

"What is it?" asked Jacob, trying to look
cheerful.

" I leave here to-night — in half an hour."

"Where for?"

" For Cincinnati."

Jacob turned pale.

" You can't ; there 's no stage."

" I 've hired one of these men to take me over to
the other road in his wagon ; there 's a Sunday
stage on that road."

Jacob could scarcely speak, so great was his agi-
tation. He had sold out his home, and now he
seemed about to lose his only friend.

" What 's to become of me? "

" You are to go with me, of course."

That brought back a gleam of hope to his dark-
ened soul.

" But — how can I ? It is so sudden ! " he said.

" Everything happens suddenly with me, as I
told you," laughed Professor Pinkey. " Listen.
Though you 've arranged to have your bed and a
few things left in the house, it wont be pleasant to
remain here till Monday. We might stand it one
night; but two nights and Sundav — bah ! I don't

172

HIS OWN MASTER.

[Janua

know how I 've endured it as long as I have, under
the most favorable circumstances ; it was only to
keep you company and put through the auction.
Now everything is ready. You Ve got your money.
Hurrah ! "

"But there are some people I ought to see
first."

" Who, for one ? "

"The man who owns the cottage. I shall owe
him a month's rent on Monday."

" You can send it to him. Besides, there 's gar-
den stuff enough left on the place to pay him.
Moreover," added Pinkey, " he should have been
present at the auction, and bid in something to
secure his debt."

JACOB WEARS HIS BEST CLOTHES.

"Then the doctor hasn't been paid. His bill
for attending my aunt will be ten or twelve dollars."

"That can wait. It is boyish to be in such
haste to pay bills!" cried Alphonse with some con-
tempt. "Pay bills always — at your own conven-
ience; that's the rule. Come, put on your Sunday
clothes ; hang up your old ones for the landlord —
they'll be something toward his rent!" Pinkey
rattled away. " What do you stand staring there
for ? I tell you I 've whittled it ail out ; it can't be
improved."

He drew Jacob into the house, and, taking down
from a nail a small black traveling-bag, which they
had saved for the purpose from the old lady's

assets, called for the boy's shirts and stockings
be stuffed into it.

Jacob, bewildered, hardly knowing what he d
began to put on his best clothes, and empty 1
pockets of his old ones.

" Here's all this money ! " he exclaimed in
spair. " I have n't got my belt made yet ! "

" I '11 lend you mine," said Alphonse.

" What will you do with your money ? "

" Why, leave it in the belt, and let you carry!
you look out for the belt, and I '11 look out for yo I

" I should n't dare ! " said Jacob, frightenedrt
the idea of losing both his own money and p
friend's. " I wish you would put my money i§
the belt, and wear it yourself ; I shall feel belj
about it."

" No. I wont ! I 'm not going to have anyth
to do with that money ; I 've said so, and I '11 si
to it," declared the virtuous Pinkey. " I can mil
a belt for you in ten minutes — only give me a pis
of sheepskin, or strong cloth."

Unfortunately, no material of the kind was tcH
found in a house which had just been cleared by.n
auction sale.

" Might tear up a sheet," suggested Alphoij.
"That wont do though; the sheets are sold vjj
the other bedding. I don't see but that I sill
have to take your money in my belt, after all."

Jacob thought it very kind in the professor, t
to relieve his inexperienced mind of a great carl

Alphonse disposed of the money while Jacob as
dressing. When the traveling-bag was packed, lie
professor said, throwing out scornfully some thigs
his young friend wished to put into it :

"That old jacket? You never will want tit,
my boy ! You are to be a gentleman now,-|t
least you are to travel with a gentleman, and bas
much like one as circumstances will allow. \pt
best clothes are bad enough. Ha, ha ! " jjfi
Alphonse laughed at Jacob's outfit.

" May be you will be ashamed to travel mt
me," said the boy, blushing, as he looked dowjt
his pepper-and-salt "go-to-meeting trousers, 'as
he called them, and surveyed his tight coat-sleeS.

He had always thought it a very proper suiijar
a lad of his years ; but now, as he began to viefc
with the eyes of the elegant Mr. Pinkey, it locB
ridiculous enough. He tried to pull down his \5t,
which was made too short ; then to button his At
at the waist, as Alphonse did, but it was too sn&
and he only made things worse.

" No matter! you are all right ! " said the I
fessor, laughing merrily. " What you lack inle-
gance of attire, you make up in personal beaut"

" I don't know what you mean by that," pofid
Jacob, with a strong suspicion that he was nfti
fun of.

■ 77-J

HIS OWN MASTER.

-),__

pi "I mean that you are a right good-looking

Dung chap, in any clothes."
c'J "Pshaw!" said Jacob, coloring redder than
; i efore.
I " Oh, but I 'm in earnest now ! "
1 1 And, indeed, if you had seen our young friend

ashed and combed, and with his clean " shirtee "

a (as he called the false bosom and collar which

e put over his coarse cotton shirt), you would
n ave thought the professor not far wrong.
(no Jacob, however, — who had been bred up by his
:c ant to the wholesome belief that he was a very
1 omely boy, — did not agree with him ; and de-
i ared that, even if the dancing-master was not
si shamed of his traveling companion, he would be

shamed for him.
tfcjri "I'll tell you how we '11 manage that," replied
;■) .lphonse. " You can travel as my servant, — if

lat will suit your idea of the fitness of things any

etter."
Jacob did n't know whether it would or not ; but

efore he could make a reply, Alphonse appeared

> have settled the matter in that way.
" There comes our wagon ! Now are we all

:ady ? " said the professor, taking up his violin-

tse.
" I want to look around a little first ! " said

>icob, surveying with a sad heart the old house
} hich had been so long his home, and which he
A as now to quit forever.

b, "What's the use of looking around? There's
jlothing you want here, is there ? "
lj r "Yes — I want a last drink out of the old well-

ucket, 'fore I go ! "

i Jacob was almost choking as he spoke, — with
t .| r first, probably, for he had been eating a hasty
Ijjtpper. He went to the well, drew up a brimming
' bucket with the long sweep, set it on the curb,
|j nd stooped over it, spattering his newly-blacked
I toes with the drippings as he drank. Then, hav-
| ig replaced the bucket on the curb, he wiped his
JUouth, also giving a little dash at one eye with a
; ' orner of his handkerchief, and said he was quite
, . :ady.

i '•' Well, bring the baggage ; " and Alphonse
. n iarched off with his violin, leaving Jacob to follow
,;| c ith the bag and valise.

r j.'As they went out, they noticed Joe Berry and
i iiother of the boys who had stoned Jacob, hanging
ground the gate. His heart relented toward them,

id he wanted to give them a friendly hand at
,,j.arting. But Joe, moved by envy and malice,

died out to his companion :

: "Some folks feel mighty big since they've had
, i auction and sold off their old duds ! "
That provoked Jacob, I am sorry to say ; and he

tiled out, in reply :

l 73

" See here, Joe Berry ! There 's some cast-off
clothes of mine in the house, that I don't want ;
they 're a good deal better than any you 've got, or
are likely ever to have again, and I '11 give 'em to
you, if you '11 be a good boy and keep your face
washed."

This retort had the desired effect ; but Joe's
angry reply was lost in the loud laughter of Al-
phonse and the driver of the wagon, as the three
rode away.

Having locked up the cottage, Jacob stopped to
leave the key at the nearest neighbor's house. The
people there had been very kind to him, and it
cost him a good deal of pain to bid them good-bye.
The professor would not let him make any more
stops, although Jacob thought he ought to give
warning of his departure to the buyers of some of
the things still left in the old home.

" What's the use ?" said Alphonse. '"They '11
find it out soon enough."

And he would not hear a word about their going
a little out of their way to see the landlord and the
doctor and pay their bills.

Jacob yielded to him in this as he did in every-
thing, but with a heart full of misgivings.

Night was now coming on ; the road wound
among shadowy hills, and the evening crickets
were beginning to sing. Jacob looked back, and
thought of his lost home, and of all the friends he
was leaving, probably never to see one of them
again. Then he looked forward into the future
and the on-coming night, with feelings which Joe
Berry would not have envied so much, could he
have looked into his heart.

Chapter VI.

DOWN THE OHIO RIVER.

The home Jacob was leaving was in one of the
easterly counties of Ohio, about thirty miles from
the Ohio River.

But the river he had never seen. He had never,
in fact, been a dozen miles from home. Every-
thing was new and strange to him on that first
journey ; and when, late Sunday afternoon, the
stage-coach, on the top of which he rode with Mr.
Pinkey, came out of a pleasant grove on the brow
of a hill that overlooked the broad stream winding
between woods and farms, and shining miles away
by the beautiful Virginia shore, he thought it the
finest sight in the world.

They stopped that night at a village on the
banks, and on Monday forenoon went on board
a steam-boat going down the river.

It was the first steam-boat Jacob had ever seen ;
and his heart beat high with joy and pride as he
stood on the deck and heard the rushing of the

174

HIS O W N MASTER.

paddles, and beheld the boat swing off from the
shore and go gliding away on the stream, bearing
him and his fortunes.

" Now you see how it is," said Alphonse. " Who
would stay cooped up in a wretched little town like
that you 've left, when he can put out and see the
world as you are doing ? " And he added, spread-
ing his hands to the river and horizon to give effect
to his eloquence: " Lives there the man, with soul
so dead, who never to himself hath said, ' This is
my own, my native land ? ' "

Jacob did not quite see the relevancy of this last
remark, which sounded very much like a quota-
tion ; but he felt that it was something fine.

" Now for our state-room," said the professor,
taking up his violin-case from the deck, and walk-
ing off, followed by Jacob with their baggage.

The boy was surprised to see how perfectly at
home Mr. Pinkey appeared on the boat. He was
at once on familiar terms with the captain ; and he
walked in among the passengers, lifting his hat to
the ladies, and making pleasant off-hand remarks,
like any old acquaintance. With his trim figure,
his wide trousers, his coat buttoned with one but-
ton at the waist, and falling carelessly open above,
displaying an expansive shirt-front and blue neck-
tie, — his pretty mustache, which he occasionally
stroked, his hair in ringlets, and his graceful,
vivacious ways, — it was no wonder the ladies re-
garded him admiringly, and seemed pleased with
his attentions.

Jacob, too diffident to put himself forward and
share his fine friend's triumphs, would have felt
quite lonely and neglected if he had not had the
novel scenes on the river to divert him, and the
passengers to study.

Some of these interested him because they
seemed so suddenly to have become intimate with
Alphonse, — two young ladies particularly. They
were evidently sisters, and looked so much alike
that he could not have told them apart, but that
one was dressed in green silk and the other in
pink. They were rather handsome, and full of gay
talk and laughter. In half an hour they were talk-
ing familiarly to Alphonse ; while a certain tall,
dark man, with a black beard, whom Jacob had
first seen talking with the sisters, kept aloof from
them and paced the deck, frowning frequently at
the favored Pinkey.

Jacob was seated on a bench by the rail, looking
sometimes at the river and shores, and sometimes
at the passengers, and listening to the sounds of
merriment in which he could not share, when
Alphonse called out to him.

"Oh, Jacob, my boy, bring up my violin, will
you ? "

Jacob seemed quite to have forgotten that he

was now his own master. He started to obey wl
the alacrity of a servant, and had reached the sta I
room before he remembered that Pinkey had t|
key. He was going back for it, when he ni
Pinkey coming to bring it.

" Where did you first know all those people I
Jacob asked, as Alphonse stood at the glass, toui>
ing up his toilet before returning to the deck.

" I never saw one of them before, you greJ
horn ! " laughed the professor.

" Why, how could you get acquainted with th<i
so soon ? "

" That 's the Pinkey style ; that 's the way to m
slow-coach ! Walk right in ; care for nobodj
push yourself — push yourself; that 's my motS
Though, of course, you can't do that in pepp[-
and-salt pantaloons. Ha, ha ! Come, bring l£
fiddle."

So saying, Pinkey locked the door again, al
tripped airily back to the group awaiting him unc»
the pillared roof of the deck ; Jacob following ole
diently with the instrument.

" There ; thank ye, Jacob, my boy ; put it dowfl
said the professor, with a condescending smile. 4

Jacob felt all eyes on him as he awkwardly wis
drew, and, rolling his own in distress, saw a bri;|
young girl with merry blue eyes fairly laughing*
him.

He had noticed her before. She was sitting vM
a lady who, as Jacob had noticed, called her FloiiJ
while the young girl had called her, "mamm"
She was full of fun, and seemed to know eve«<
body, and to be a favorite with everybody. 1-fi
was not quite so old as Jacob ; and he had thoug;,-
as he watched her, that he would give anyth g
in the world if he but had the courage to speako
her. She had looked at him curiously once S
twice, and given him no further notice till now. m

She was laughing, and her mother was trying
stop her, though she was smiling herself at «
time. It was a moment of bitter chagrin to Jacl
He believed that he hated Florie, though onll
little while before she had appeared to him so gci
and beautiful. He returned to his place by i
rail, and gazed off upon the water, with a fe
which was very red indeed.

Professor Pinkey played some merry tunes a
his violin, and the sisters in green and pink s:i I
some lively songs. The passengers applaudij
and everybody seemed happy except the till
dark man, who continued to pace the deck <?
mally. We must also except Jacob. He its
entertained, but by no means blissfully at ease|
his mind, as he sat there, in the distressing c|fc
sciousness of an ill-fitting coat and pepper-and It
trousers, and watched the sport, and wondered-B
many another sensitive young person has donen

877-1

HIS OWN MASTER.

175

like occasion — if he could ever get to feel at home
l " company."
He did not receive another word or look from
t dphonse until they met in their state-room after
upper. Then the professor overflowed with affa-
ility and extravagant praises of " the heiresses."
"What heiresses ? " said Jacob, much astonished.
" Why, the sisters, the twins — the Misses Chip-
e »erly; the girls in green and pink, with the big
ar-rings. They are the only daughters of the
chest man in St. Louis. One's name is Theodora,
rid the other's, Theodosia ; ' Dory ' and ' Doshy '
what their mother calls them. That 's the stout
Id lady with the double chin. I 've learned all
oout them, and am dead in love ! " said Alphonse.
" With which one ? " Jacob inquired.
" I don't know yet," replied Alphonse, care-
:ssly. " But I 'm resolved to offer myself to one
r both of them before we leave the boat."
" Wont that be — rather — sudden ?" said Jacob.
" I tell you, things happen sudden with me.
'ovv do you like 'em ? "
Hv Jacob felt bound to like ladies whom his elegant
■ ' iend admired. He could not help saying, how-
•fver, that he thought them rather rough in their
rljiiianners.

" That 's Western style," Pinkey replied. " Did
)u notice how mad that fellow was at me ? "
" The tall, black-bearded man ? I saw him look-
ling daggers ! "

ill " He 's a Kentuckian — Colonel Corkright, a no-
j:> 'Hous duelist!" said Alphonse, confidentially.
I But I 'm not afraid of him."

Chapter VII.

NIGHT ON THE STEAM-BOAT.

MATTERS took a singular turn that evening.

Jacob saw Colonel Corkright throw the stump of

s cigar into the river, and deliberately walk over

■ where Alphonse was telling stories that made

re young ladies in pink and green scream with

.1; ughter. He expected nothing less than to see

. e tall Kentuckian pick up the slight professor

1 i id fling him over into the water, after his cigar-

ump. But nothing of the kind occurred.
8 j Corkright treated Alphonse with courtesy, deign-
ing even to smile while the sisters laughed. Still
1 tcob was alarmed on his friend's account, and he
1 nged to get word with him, to warn him of his
; inger.

j . It was a warm moonlight evening, and the com-
■. -iny kept the deck, enjoying songs and stories.
• : e fresh breeze, and the beautiful play of light on
; J e water between the boat and the Virginia shore.
r - I "You seem lonesome here by yourself," said a
■ 1 :ntle voice to Jacob as he sat musing.

He was so intent just then in watching Florie as
she flitted in and out among the groups of pas-
sengers, that he had not noticed Florie's mother
seating herself on a camp-stool near by.

It was she who spoke. Her voice was so very
soft that it had a sort of sympathetic drawl.

"I'm not lonesome," he replied, with a little
embarrassment: "though maybe I seem so be-
cause I don't know anybody."

" Are you traveling alone ? " she inquired.

Jacob answered that he was traveling with Pro-
fessor Pinkey.

" Oh yes ! I remember you brought up his violin
for him." Jacob was glad that the moonlight did
not betray his blushes. " He seems a very pleas-
ant gentleman," added the lady.

Jacob answered, with a glow of pleasure, that
Mr. Pinkey was the best fellow in the world, as well
as the smartest.

" You have known him intimately a long while,
then ? "

This question, put with the lady's peculiar drawl,
set Jacob to thinking that his intimacy with Al-
phonse really extended over only a few days. But
he thought of their first acquaintance, and said :
'* I ve known him ever since last winter, when he
kept a dancing-school in our town."

Florie had glided near, and now stood leaning
fondly on her mother's shoulder. The moonlight
was on her face, lighting up an intent, curious
smile, with which she seemed to be scrutinizing
Jacob. He remembered her merriment at his ex-
pense, which had stung him so, and he tried to
think he hated her still ; but he might as well have
tried to hate a rose-bud because he had felt its
thorns.

" I should think he would make a very good
dancing-master," said the mother. " His manners
are exquisite."

Florie laughed, " You did n't go to his school,
did you ? "

" Florie, be still ! " said her mother. She was
always saying to her, " Florie, be still ! " but some-
how Florie never would be still. She was not
exactly rude, but she had been a good deal spoiled,
no doubt ; and she had a way of saying and doing
always the first thing that came into her gay young
head.

Jacob looked her full in the face, and said, with
an honest smile :

" Yes, I did go to his school, though I suppose
you would n't think so, from my manners."

" I think he must be a very poor teacher."
laughed Florie.

" Be still, Florie ! " said her mother.

Jacob was a pretty plucky boy. although he ap-
peared so diffident in society. Opposition roused

176

HIS OWN MASTER

[Januap

his spirit. Florie's presence and saucy bright eyes
had troubled him at first. But her pert remarks,
instead of increasing his confusion, cured it ; and
he was now quite himself as he replied, with the
same steadfast, honest look and smile :

" He is a very good teacher. But I suppose I
was a bad subject. We were all pretty green, and
he gave us only ten lessons ; I had only nine, for I
went in after the first one. Not much of a chance,
you see, for a boy that had always worked hard
and never been in company ! But you can't under-
stand that. You can afford to laugh at an awkward
fellow like me ! "

Jacob laughed himself as he spoke, while Florie
looked more serious.

" I don't laugh at you ! "

" You don't now ; but you did."

"When?"

" When I carried Mr. Pinkey's violin to him
to-day."

Florie's silvery laugh rang out again.

"I laugh at everything — anything; but I was
laughing more at your dancing-master than at you
— he was so ridiculous ! "

" Be still, Florie ! " said the mother.

" How — ridiculous?" cried Jacob, firing up for
his friend.

" Ordering you about as if you were his servant
— and he such a little fellow, dangling those ring-
lets ! ' Put it down, Jacob, my boy ! ' "

Florie struck an attitude, waved her hand, shook
her own auburn curls, and made altogether so droll
an imitation of Pinkey's manner, that Jacob had to
laugh, while her mother exclaimed, " Be still, be
still, Florie ! "

" I 'm sorry you don't like my friend," said
Jacob, struggling remorsefully against his merri-
ment.

' ' Like him — ha, ha ! If 1 were you, I 'd get a
pair of scissors, or use my jack-knife, and cut off
that lowest button of his coat, so he can't button it
at the waist and make a wasp of himself any more !
And I 'd snip out curls enough from his head when
he's asleep, so he'd have to have his hair cut,"
Florie went on, in spite of her mother. " He's so
absurd ! "

" You don't seem to agree with the ladies who
admire him so much," replied Jacob.

"What ladies? If you mean the Chipperly
girls," cried Florie

" Be still, Florie, my child ! " said her mother.

"He's just the kind of man to please them,"
the child kept on. " Have you noticed how "

" Florie ! Florie ! if you don't stop, you shall go
to bed ! Come ! " and the mother arose, taking
the wayward girl firmly by the hand. " I don't
know what this young lnd will think of vou ! "

Florie laughed as if she did n't care, and r;
away, like a fain 1 , in the moonlight.

" You must not think anything of what s
says," remarked the mother, turning to Jaco
" She is very thoughtless."

" I don't care for what she says of me or any
the rest, but she really does Mr. Pinkey injustice
replied Jacob. " I can't understand why she doi
like him ; everybody else does."

" Oh yes, everybody must admire Mr. Pinkey
But in the lady's drawl there was something whi
sounded to Jacob a little like irony. He h
noticed the same when she spoke of Pinkey's ma«
ners being " exquisite ; " but it did not occur
him then that there could be any sarcasm in t
remark. " He is almost too brilliant ; there is d;
ger of his dazzling a lad like you."

" Danger — how ? " said Jacob.

" You may be blinded to his faults. For I si
pose even Professor Pinkey has his faults ! "

That was decidedly satirical, though spoken w
an innocent demureness, which would have qu
deceived Jacob only a few minutes before. Son
how his talk with Florie had quickened his
amazingly.

" Yes, I suppose he has," he answered. " I 01
know he is a most generous fellow. He insisted
paying my traveling expenses — though he had da
a great deal for me before."

" And did you let him ? "

" I could n't help myself, because he has
money."

" Oh ! " said the lady. " How happened that

Jacob told her.

" Very kind in him indeed to relieve you of
care of your money ! I ought not to breath<
word against so good and generous a friend ! A
truly, I am sure he is a person of some excell
traits as well as accomplishments. But is he tn
— is he altogether upright ? Are you sure his
fluence over you is good ? "

" Oh, very sure ! " exclaimed Jacob.

" I am very glad to hear it. Good night ! "

Nothing could have been kinder than the lads
manner. But somehow her words implied a grit
deal more than she said. They set Jacob to thifr
ing of something which had troubled his consciem
all along, and which made him feel extremely <
easy just now. There was the doctor's account I
attending his aunt in her last illness ; why hadlj
not asked for and paid it before coming aw;.'
And he ought to have settled with the landlord-|t'
was a small amount that he owed him ; he had M
money, and it would have cost but little troubkp
find him. Why had he not done so ? Certainly, hi
cause of Professor Pinkey's advice. Was, then, til
gentleman's influence over him altogether goodv

'877-1

HIS OWN MASTER.

177

But while Jacob reasoned thus, and condemned
imself, he found plenty of excuses for Alphonsc.
Florie and her mother had gone. Soon after,
i ae other ladies withdrew, the mother of the sisters
aving sent for them from her state-room. Al-
honse was left in conversation with the Kentucky
j olonel and two other men, and all of them pres-
ently entered the cabin.

Jacob followed, and found the four engaged in a
ame of cards, amidst a company of pretty rough-
looking men, several of whom were also occupied
1 card-playing. The end of the cabin devoted

When Jacob returned, he found Pinkey and
Corkright engaged in a game ; and noticing the
skill with which the professor handled the cards,
was not surprised to see him win.

It was growing late, and Jacob, who wished to-
go to bed, saw with some discomfort that another
game was to be played.

"Are you coming soon?" he whispered to Al-
phonsc.

" Yes, in a few minutes. Here, take the key;
the room is too small for two to undress together ;
I '11 be there by the time you are in bed."

'.3re exclusively to gentlemen had been shut off
nm that of the ladies by the dividing doors, and
■> was filled with loud talk and tobacco-smoke,

rich were so offensive to Jacob that he wondered
<w the delicate Alphonse could endure such an

rtosphere and such society.

Hearing male voices in the ladies' cabin, he
. Iked into it ; but, finding that he had entered a

emn meeting, where a traveling preacher had
' iembled a small company for evening prayers, he

shfully walked out again.
. " Curious ! " thought he. " Bible-reading on one

e of the partition, and gambling on the other ! "

Pinkey and the Colonel were now on such friendly
terms that Jacob dismissed his fears on his friend's,
account. Still he did not like to leave him there
in such company ; and it was only because he did
not wish to displease him that he finally with-
drew.

He passed through the other part of the cabin
again to his state-room, and went to bed, leaving
the lamp burning ; then lay awake for a long while
waiting for Alphonse. At last he fell asleep, and
it must have been two or three hours later that he
was awakened by somebody in the room.

It was Alphonse. He was very pale, his eyes.

i 7 8

KING LONESOME.

f Janua

shone, and his fine white forehead glistened like
marble. Jacob did not speak until he saw that his
friend was not preparing for bed, but going out
again with his violin.

" You are not going to play, this time of night,
are you ? " he said, anxiously.

'• What business is it of yours whether I play or
not ? " Alphonse retorted, sharply.

" I did n't mean cards — I meant the violin," said
Jacob.

"Just a tune or two," rejoined Pinkey, in a
kinder tone, as he went out and closed the door.

Jacob did not know when next he fell asleep ;
but, awaking a second time, he found himself in
the dark. He remembered that the lamp had been
burning low, and that he had seen Pinkey turning
up the wick. Had he entered the room a second
time, and put out the light ? Or had it burnt out?

He listened for any movement or sound of brea
ing in the berth below. All was silence, broki
only by the constant jar of the boat's engine al
the rushing noise of the strong paddle-wheels.

Jacob turned, and listened again. Then t
reached carefully down to the berth below. It \1
vacant ; the carefully tucked-in coverlet had it
been disturbed.

A great fear possessed him, and he was about!
get up and dress himself, to go in search of s
friend, when he heard footsteps approaching, a|
a hand on the door. Somebody came in, ail
without striking a light or stopping to undrt,
got into the lower berth.

The moon had set ; but the first glimmer f
dawn was beginning to steal through the snl
state-room window, and by the gray, cold li|#
Jacob could see that the comer was Alphonse. ;

(To be continued.)

KING LONESOME.
By Lucy Larcom.

Who is the white-faced old man

Outside, at the window-pane.
That muttered and sighed, as away he ran

Into the sleet and rain ;
Crying to some one behind.

Calling to some one before,
One whom he cannot find,

One who will come no more?"

That old man has sisters three ;

One he has never seen :
On a throne of roses afar sits she,

And the whole world owns her a queen.
But out ot her riches and power.

Nothing has she to spare —
Not so much as a flower —

For the lonesome wanderer there.

One sister beside him delayed,

And tried his thin fingers to hold ;
But the storm her garments shredded and frayed,

And she sank, benumbed with the cold.
And ever he prays and cries,

And over her silence grieves ;
Behind him, alas ! she lies

Buried in golden leaves.

in w J

KING LONESOME.

179

One happy young face before,

Looks back, between cloud and drift,
With a sudden smile, and is seen no more ;

And the pilgrim follows, swift
As a flash of the noon-day light ;

With wail, and reproach, and shout,
He follows, through day and night,

Till again the face peeps out.

LO ! THERE AT THE TANE HE GLOWERS !

This fairest sister of all

Will laugh in the old man's face,
Will challenge him onward, with merry call,

To measure with her a race,
Till, weary and lame, he falls

Amid rose-buds and springing fern.
She flies with the wind ; he calls,

But never will she return.

For the pale-faced pilgrim without

Is Winter, the lonesome king,
Calling back to Autumn with dreary shout,

And hurrying on toward Spring.
As Summer rules over the flowers,

Over ice and snow reigns he.
Lo ! there at the pane he glowers,

And shakes his white scepter — sec !

i So

LITTLE TRAVELERS.

[jANliV,

LITTLE TRAVELERS.

77-1

LITTLE TRAVELERS.

rsi

LITTLE TRAVELERS.
By Harriet M. Miller.

WE all are travelers on the jour-
ney of life — some of us pleas-
ant and helpful, and some of
us cross and complaining, but
all with equal speed hurrying
on to the end.

Let the older travelers pass on
their way, while we take a peep
at the youngest of all the little
travelers in their first stage,
when as yet they have no voice
in the conduct of their own lives,
but are tumbled and tossed about
at the convenience of more ex-
perienced fellow-passengers.
To begin where the human race started, let us
i how the little travelers get on in the far East,
e Oriental baby inherits from his grave, ceremo-
us papa a quiet, thoughtful air, to which our
)ies are perfect strangers. No laughing, kick-
■, crowing, and screaming little traveler have we
■e, but a solemn, quiet, black-haired infant, who
ks out at life from his mother's back with a calm
ifference that even the grown-up babies of the
:st cannot equal. Tied up in his wooden tray,
a cradle, he goes with mamma to the field,
ing his dinner, or lying under a tree, with equal
rvposure, contentedly waiting the time when he
11 waddle around, wrapped in yards and yards
>ilk and woolen cloth ; jackets and trousers, fez
1 turban, and big shawl around his waist, if he 's
Turkish baby ; and red shoes or wooden kob-
>s, blue baggy trousers, loose jackets, and red
or tarboosh, if he's a Syrian baby. He makes
journeys in a basket hung on the side of a horse,
i stuffed seat and bar to hold him up, while his
se rides the same animal and keeps him quiet
i a lump of opium, if he 's a Persian baby ; and
:s luxuriously on donkey-back, with his cradle
ng between two upright posts from the saddle,
e 's a Jerusalem baby.

'he bare-headed baby of China, not quite so
ve as his Asiatic cousins, is still a contented
e traveler, whether he rides on the back of
nma, or is tied on a mat to sleep, or exposed
de the door in a bamboo cage, or fastened
lis gilded baby-chair, to teach him to sit up.
! most important moment in his young life
/hen, at the age of one year, he decides his
re destiny in a curious way. He is carefully
ised in new clothes, and seated in the middle

of a large sieve, in which are placed many articles,
among which are money-scales, a brass mirror,
writing utensils, books, silver and gold ornaments,
and fruits, while the anxious parents stand by to
see which object will first attract his sober black
eyes. If he takes up a book or pencil, he is
destined to become a scholar ; if the glitter of gold
or silver attract him, his fate is to amass wealth ;
if fruits suit him best, he will incline to spurn the
rice of his father's table, and feast upon delicate
puppy-stew, or bird's-nest soup.

At two years of age he will dress like his grand-
father of eighty, and look like that old gentleman
seen through the small end of an opera-glass.
When he first enters school, he will bring, not a
spelling-book and slate, but two candles, a few
sticks of incense, and a small quantity of mock
money (made of paper), to be burned before a
piece of paper having the name of Confucius writ-
ten upon it. Thus the little Chinese traveler is
launched on his school-life.

The little traveler on the shore of the Ganges
has a very different life. Bathed every day in the
sacred stream, or in a jar of its water ; scrubbed
with its holy mud — ears, eyes, and mouth ; thor-
oughly purified from all sin, as his parents devoutly
believe — how can he help being better than other
babies? He is a jolly, happy baby, bright as the
sunshine of his native land ; not troubled with clothes
if he belongs to the poor classes ; but wrapped in
gorgeous silks of scarlet and blue, loaded with
jewels, and weighed down by enormous gold-em-
broidered turban, if he happens to be a prince.
He is betrothed by his parents while he is still in
the first stage of his journey, and often is married
at the age of six or eight to a bride of as many
months, when, according to the custom of the
country, he goes to live in the family of his little
wife, and be educated — not to learn his lessons with
her, as you might suppose, for, alas ! the baby-
girls of Burmah are not taught to read.

This little Hindoo traveler sleeps in a basket
hung from the roof, and rides out on mamma's
hip ; and, what seems dreadful to us, he learns to
smoke before he can walk, his mother often taking
a cigar from her own lips and putting it into his.
If his life -journey is cut short, his body is carried
to the grave in his basket-cradle, which is covered
with a fringed canopy and hung from a pole on the
shoulders of men, and left at last upside down on
his last resting-place.

182

LITTLE TRAVELERS.

[JANUI

By the side of the same sacred stream we can see
the little traveler of the Parsees, a people who
came long ago from Persia, and who worship the
sun. The peculiarity of this fair-faced baby in the
land of darker colors, is that he is never seen with
his head uncovered. Man, woman, or child, — old
or young, rich or poor, day or night, asleep or
awake, indoors or out, — the Parsee must always
keep the head covered. He wears a pretty cap of
silk or velvet or linen, which is very becoming.
His dress is always of silk, covered with embroidery,
gold and jewels, according to the wealth of his
family, and the little Parsee is a very picturesque
object among the naked babies of the poorer
classes.

The little traveler in Italy, with his droll little
cap, and dress like his grandmother's, goes in lead-
ing strings, or a walking-frame of wicker-work.
On the Cornice road he goes to market with
mamma, riding in a basket hung to the sides of
a donkey, with a brother or sister in a similar
basket on the other side. The vegetables, which
mamma sells, and the babies, ride very content-
edly together ; while the mother, with her parasol-
hat, crowns the droll load, busily engaged in knit-
ting or spinning as she rides along.

In Algiers, baby rides " pick-a-back," and in
Bavaria tied flat to his nurse's back; but if he
belongs to the poorer classes, he has the best time
in France. Have you heard of that most beautiful
charity of Paris called "The Cradle" (Creche),
where the babies of mothers who must go out to
work are kept all da) — bathed, freshly dressed,
fed, doctored, and amused till their mothers return
home at night ? The late Mrs. Field, in her pleas-
ant letters from France, tells about it, and how the
children of richer parents are interested in it, saving
their money to pay for a cradle in the house, and
then going to visit it, and feeling a particular in-
terest in the baby which lies in their cradle.

There is another charity in Paris, as well as in
many other places, for the little traveler who is
"left out in the cold" by poor or unhappy parents.
In our country he is apt to start on his life-journey
from somebody's door-step, from which he is gener-
ally sent by the owner to a Foundling Home, pro-
vided for such unfortunate waifs ; but in Paris the
charitable home for this little traveler has, in its
door-way, a sort of box which turns on a pivot.
When a mother, from poverty or any reason, feels
obliged to give away her baby (and none can tell
what a mother must feel before she comes to that),
she goes to this door, lays the little creature in the
movable box, and turns it around out of her sight,
ringing a door-bell as she does so. An attendant
takes the gift, carries it to kind-hearted women
within, who dress and feed it, and bring up the

motherless baby, in time tench it some trade,
give it a start in life.

The little traveler on our side of the water h
variety of fashions. In Lima he swings in a h
mock ; in Yucatan he toddles around amply dredl
in a straw hat and pair of sandals. Among le
Indians of our prairies he begins life as a paste
bundle, hung over his mother's back or from &
limb of a tree. His head is made to grow flatiy
means of a board (as you see in the picture), if'fc;
is to have the honor of being a Flat-head Indiii.
Waste no pity on him ; it would be the sorrow ■
disgrace of his life if his head were shaped te
yours. He will in future years select his skis
from round-headed races, and proudly declare tat
no Flat-head was ever a slave !

When the little travelers come in pairs, tgr
make confusion in the world. Among our PJifc
Indians (as I lately read in a Nevada paper), wni
this happens, it becomes necessary, by Indian lfl
for the dignified, pompous papa himself to tee
care of the superfluous baby. When you rem'a-
ber that an Indian never deigns to notice, ml-
less to touch, a papoose, you can imagine wh;fe
mortification this must be to him.

Among some peoples the extra baby is at cse
put out of the way ; but in one African tribfc
curious custom prevails. The hut containing Be
unfortunate pair is marked by a cloth hung be re
the door, and a row of white pegs driven into fe
ground in front of it. If any one except the par<fe
goes in, he is at once seized and sold into slavfe.
The twins cannot play with other children, anew
one can use anything out of that house. '&
mother is allowed to go out to work in the fid,
bring wood and other necessary things, but ae
cannot speak to any one out of her own fanll
This performance goes on till the unwelcome tir
are six years old, when they have a great ceremiy
— music, marching, feasting, and dancing; id
when this is done, the banished family take^its
place among respectable people again.

Save your pity for the unhappy little travcM,
American born and white, who is abandonecto
the tender mercies of nurses. He will be drefed'
too tightly perhaps, drugged with soothing-sip
(or worse), slapped if he cries, and left alone inhe
dark. He will ride in his carriage with the su in
his eyes, if it is sunny ; and with arms and h;ds
uncovered and half frozen, if it is cold. Flies nil
be allowed to tickle his fat little nose, and pinto
stick into his tender little back. The strings oris
absurd lace cap will choke him till he is blaclin
the face ; and he will nearly break his neck fallg
over the arm of Bridget when she wants to gclip
with a crony. His troublesome clothes willbe
twitched down and jerked around ; and he wil be

77-

'83

id down, set up, turned over, and arranged any
iy most convenient to her. Above all, if he dares
ien his mouth to complain of any of these tortures,
5 delicate little body will be trotted on her hard
tees till it will be nothing short of a miracle if his
ccious little life is not worried out of him.

si. The calm Oriental baby in his tray or basket;

ie Chinese baby in his cage ; the baby of Burmah,

ked or wrapped in silks, smoking at two and

1 irried at ten : the baby of the " Cradle " and the

Kindling Asylum of Paris ; the Lima baby in its

hammock, and the stolid Indian papoose on its
boards, — each and every one is happier and better
off than our poor little mother-abandoned American
baby, left to ignorant and careless nurses.

The ''mother-baby," — the happy little traveler
who is not left to the mercies of a nurse, whose
throne is his mother's arms, whose pillow is soft,
and whose needs are wisely met, — he is the hap-
piest of all. Fair, fat, and hearty, the sorrows of
babyhood come not near him. He truly is the one
" born with a silver spoon in his mouth."

77-

By M. M. D.

ING, dong ! Ding, dong !

Seventy-six will soon be gone ;
Seventy-seven 's coming on, —
Ding, dong ! Ding, dong !

Tell us, year, before you go, —

Ding, dong ! Ding, dong !
Why at last you hurry so,
Though at first so very slow ?

Ding, dong !
Can't you wait a little longer,
Till the baby-year gets stronger?
Ding, dong ! Ding, dong !

Why can't years come back again,
Just the same as they have been ?

Ding, dong ! Ding, dong !
Big folks say 't would never do,
None would live the past anew ;
But I 'd like it, — would n't you ?

Ding, dong ! Ding, dong !

Just the same ? No, I must be
Better with each year, you see,
Old year! Don't you pity me?
Ding, dong ! Ding, dong,
Ding !

1 84

POPPETS.

[JanuaI

POPPETS.

By Amalie La Forge.

It was a calm, still evening. The broad bosom
of the Thames was scarcely ruffled by the little
breeze that stirred the drooping sails of some of the
river craft. Over the city and over the forest of
masts, the round full moon was rising. Touching
the dome of St. Paul's, it glanced down over roofs
and under bridges till it lay a broad path of light
on the sleeping river. The gas lamps nickered and
looked pale before its light, and many a weary
pedestrian, hurrying across the crowded bridges
which span the river, paused a moment to gaze at
the full-orbed globe which even to weary eyes was
a wondrous revelation of beauty.

It was dark under the bridges, and the water
lapping against the piers had something mournful
in its sound. One of the slow river-barges was just
passing into the shadow. John Briggs, her owner,
leaned against the tiller, guiding his clumsy craft
carefully through the arches. Near the bow his
nephew Ben was seated, pulling one long oar.

" Steady, Ben !" called out the master, warningly.

" Steady it is," and Ben drew in his oar a little.

Out into the light again the boat came slowly
creeping, eagerly watched by a little figure stand-
ing on one of the water-stairs. As they came closer,
he sent out to them a feeble piping hail.

John Briggs shaded his eyes with his hand.
" Why, bless my soul, it 's Poppets ! Bring her
near, Ben, so he can come aboard."

Then a strong hearty shout was sent back in
answer, while the boat's head slowly turned toward
the stair.

John Briggs took his pipe out of his mouth to
welcome the new-comer. " Why, Poppets, we
was gettin' oneasy 'bout you, me an' Ben. We
thought you'd got lost, mebbe."

" Me lost ! Why, dad ! " and they both laughed
heartily in huge enjoyment of the joke, the thin
treble of the one ringing pleasantly through the
gruff bass of the other.

''Well, Poppets," and John Briggs resumed his
pipe, "wot has you bought fur us, fur 't wont be
long afore we wants our supper."

The little boy knelt down beside his basket which
he had set with great care in a corner, and touch-
ing each parcel as he took it out with a caressing
little pat, he went rapidly over his list.

"There's the tobacco, dad, and the tea and
sugar, and bacon and herrin's — and oh, dad ! I got
some cresses. They looked so green and pretty, like
the fields : I got 'em cos of that."

" Ho ! ho ! " laughed Ben, who was listening;
his uncle frowned him into sudden gravity, th
nodded kinaly at the little flushed, eager face :

"It 's all right, my lad. Cresses is werry g<fl
for the health, as my old mother used to say."

" They 're too pretty to eat 'most," said the b<J
touching them tenderly.

"Well, Poppets, what '11 we have for supper.l
bein' it 's your watch ? "

" Oh, dad, herrin's ! They 're so good, and l|
awful hungry."

" Werry good, my lad. Here, steward," to Bl
who grinned in appreciation of the never-faill
joke, " you hear the cap'in. He says herrin's f
supper, and consequently herrin's it is."

" Ay, ay, sir ! " — and Ben pulled his foreloclJ
the little " cap'in," who clapped his hands gleeful

" Now, cap'in," said John Briggs, gravely, "i|
be as you '11 mind the tiller a bit, I '11 take the i
an' by the time Ben 's got supper we '11 be readjl
anchor. "

Higher and higher rose the moon, silvering j
masts and spars of the many vessels crowded
the docks. The barge was anchored now;
Ben, his labors ended, was stretched sound asll
on the deck. Farther aft, John Briggs and Popn
were seated on a coil of rope, talking in low toil
— the child holding clasped in both his, the ha
rough hand of the other.

" Now, dad, tell me 'bout that night," he was !
ing; and "dad," drawing him a little closer, cJ
menced the often told, yet never tired of, story!

" Well, Poppets, it was a night just like thil
clear full moon an' a light breeze not much moij
to-night, for I remembers the sails o' the vea
'round hung just like rags. Well, we was kin|
driftin' along. Ben was at the tiller, an' I
pullin' wery slow, for I was feelin' uncommon
Poppets, cos of havin' buried my little girl andl
mother that werry same week."

Here the child nestled his head down onl
speaker's arm. He always did when this pari
the story was reached.

" Well, Poppets," stroking his hair softly,
was sayin', we was driftin' down slow an' std
like. When we come under London Bridgel
moon was shinin' werry bright indeed, an'
looked back kind o' natural like to see if wel
goin' to clear the bridge, 1 sees somethin' fIo:l
on the water, right under the bridge, Poppe^
floatin' up an' down with the tide."

ONE OF THE SLOW RIVER-BARGES WAS JUST PASSING INTO THE SHADOW."

C [?' r 5 \ d f,' 8 ,° °" ! " Cned P ° PP ' etS ' eagerly " ' Hu "°' Ben ' hcre ' s somethm' wants lookin' to '-
y, ^ lad! I m goin on. Well, says I, an' Ben be comes runnin' for'ard ; an' by an' by we
Vol. IV. — i 3 .

i86

POPPETS.

[Janm

gets the somethin' out, an' then we finds a shawl,
an' then we finds some more clo'es, and arter a
long time we finds a baby, an' that baby was "

"And that baby was me.'" cries the child, de-
lightedly. "Go on, dad."

"An' that baby was my Poppets" — stooping to
pat the boy's cheek. " Well, then, Ben an' me
took you off wot you was lyin' on" (he did not
tell him — poor baby. — that it was his dead mother's
heart), "an' we rubbed you an' wrapped you up
warm, an' by an' by you begins to cry ; an' my !
how you did go on, Poppets ! Says Ben to me,
shoutin' out cos I could n't hear cos of you, —
' Uncle,' says he, ' did you ever hear such a
screecher?' An' says I, 'No, Ben, an' I hopes I
never shall again.' You may laugh, Poppets, but
Ben an' me did n't do much laughin' that night."

" Dad," said the child, suddenly, " did you ever
know my mother ? "

John Briggs turned away with a little embarrassed
cough. "I've seen her, Poppets; but we was n't
werry intimate, so to speak."

"'Cause you said ///is" — touching a little ring
hanging from his neck by a faded ribbon — " was
hers, and she left it for me."

"Well, Poppets, an' so she did; she was a
werry respectable woman, your mother, an' she
did n't want to have nothin' to leave you, I s'pose."

" What was she like ? " questioned Poppets.

"Well, she was all dressed in black w'en 1 see
her, with a widow's cap on. She was a werry nice
woman, I makes no doubt, Poppets, but she got
poor an' werry discouraged afore she died."

Then seeing another question moving on the
child's lips, he went on hastily :

"Look here, lad; this here isn't goin' on with
our story. Well, you just screeched and screeched,
till Ben an' me was 'most worn out, but I would n't
give you up, — no, I would n't ; an' you was that
hungry, there was no satisfyin' you ; so I says one
day, 'Ben.' says I, 'go an' buy a goat;' so Ben
he goes an' buys a goat, an' the next day overboard
it goes, an' Ben arter it, an' gets near bein' drown-
ded on account of its bein' so contrary. Well, at
last I takes you to a woman 1 knows, an' I asksTier
wot 's the matter.

" She looks at you awhile, an' then says she,
' He do screech like a good one, don't he ? ' An'
says I, ' Nobody knows that better nor me, mum.'

" Then she looks at you again, an' says she,
' His mind wants amusin', that 's it,' says she.

" 'As how, mum ?' I says.

" ' Lord love you, man,' says she, 'how should I
know ? You Ml have to find out. Children is werry
different about that,' she says.

" So I walks off with you in my arms, not havin'
learned so werrv much arter all. Howsomever, I

makes you a soft ball, and I hangs it by a striijj
an' you 'd lie dabbin' at that there with your li
fists; like a kitten for all the world. Arter a wh
you gives up screechin', an' you 'd laugh to me
pretty like, you cured the pain in my heart w
derful ; an' then w'en you growed, I sent you
school evenin's, and my ! how proud you was w
you could read to yer dad, an' yer dad, Poppc
was just as proud, every bit. Then arter a whj
you say you wants to do something to help yer
dad, so I takes you to the shops and shows
what to buy, an' then you says you wants to
alone, so one day go alone it is. Well, arter yot
got started, I says to Ben, 'Ben,' says I, 'I
awful oneasy 'bout Poppets.' An' says he,
knowed it; s'pose you go arter him.' So ol
starts. Well, I kept you in sight for a good 1
sneakin' 'round corners an' skulkin' behind barn
for I did n't want you to see me, ye see. If
kept at that business long, Poppets, I 'm sure
ha' took to pickin' pockets. Somehow I felt j
like a thief. Well, you goes about, lookin' as
as anybody, an' I was just laughin' at myself
bein' so oneasy 'bout you, when all at onct I se
lot o' boys stop you, an' one on 'em tried to t:
yer basket, but you held on to that, an' by an'
a big fellow steps up an' says he, ' I say, youngsi
just give up yer basket, or 1 11 punch yer 'ead,'
then you begins to cry, an' says you, ' Oh, I w
dad was here ! '

" I was only waitin' for that, so I sings t
' Stand by, my hearties ! ' an' I makes a rush
knocks over the big fellow with a cuff on his (
an' then they all takes to their heels like a lot
little fishin'-boats if a man-o'-war bears down \
'em.

" Well, you walked on quiet for a bit, an' tl
you says, ' Dad, how did you come here?'

" ' Well,' says I, ' Poppets, I thought I 'd lib
take a walk.' ' Now, dad,' you says, lookin' strai
at me, ' you know you come to look arter t
Well, I had to say I did. You thought awhile,
then says you, ' Dad, s'pose you do that fur a lit
fur I aint goin' to give it up,' says you, clutel
yer little basket — ' an' then some day you leave
when I don't know it, an' then I '11 feel just as i
thinkin' you 're there, an' then arter a while I vvj
mind.' Oh ! you always was a terrible straj
child, Poppets !

" So we does that, an' sometimes I 'd see
looking back fur me, an' I 'd make b'lieve I did|
see you, an' walk on an' take no notice, an' so
got to go alone, an' now there aint nobody can!
it better than my Poppets."

" And that ; s all about me, dad ? "

" An' that 's all about you yet awhile, my lacl

The shadows were denser under the bridjij

P O PI'ETS.

I8 7

d the water lapped the piers a little more quickly,
• the tide was coming in. Red and green lights
re twinkling in the rigging of the vessels, and
3 crowd in the streets was thinning, and still John
iggs and the child sat talking together.
Once and again the child's thoughts would turn
his dead mother, and he would ask earnest,
zzling questions, and always gently, always skill-
ly, would the other lead him away from the sub-
it.

There aint no use tellin' the child his mother
s drownded," he had said to Ben long before,
f she fell in a-purpose, — which aint no ways
likely, them London bridges bein' a dreadful
mptation to folks as is worrited in their minds, —

must n't never know it ; an' if she fell in by
ident, which may be too, why he 'd always be
nkin' if there 'd been somebody there they might
I, got her out, so we jist wont tell him at all."
They had sat silent for some time, when suddenly
: child spoke.

'Now, dad, I'll tell you a story, such a nice,
le one," said Poppets, who had been gazing for
ong time at the moon shining so quietly down
them.

' Ay, lad, that '11 be prime ! Why, come to
ik, Poppets, you 've never told yer old dad a
ry yet."

' Well, I 'm going to now," answered the child,
Iding his head gravely. " Once upon a time —
t 's the way all the stories begin in the fairy-book
1 bought me, dad."
'All right, deary ; now then, go on. ' Once upon

:me'"

' Once upon a time, there was a good, good
n, who was very, very lonely, 'cause of havin'
ied his little girl and her mother."

That's me," said the listener, under his breath,

'inly I don't know 'bout the ' good.'"

if-' Hush, dad; you mustn't stop me," warned

ipets, shaking his head at him. "Well, this

id man was sailin' on the river one night, and he

feelin' very low and very unhappy, and he was

n' to himself, ' There aint nobody left, and I
1 I was n't left neither.' "
';i Why, Poppets ! " said John Briggs, with a
.0, " how 'd you know?"
I Never mind ; I know. Well, he was thinkin'

I, and the moon looked down at him, and she
w all about it, and she'd sparkle up the water,

« she'd smile at him, and still he did n't notice
lin'. So she kept thinkin', thinkin' what she

: d do for this good, good man. And by and by
autiful angel came along, holding a little girl ;
the little girl had long yellow curls and blue

I I, and she called the pretty angel ' mother.' "
he child paused a little, for his listener had

shaded his face with his hand, and Poppets' little
tender fingers went up to stroke it gently.

" Well, then, the moon and the angel talked
about the man ; and by and by, the moon made a
little boat out of the moonlight, and she put a baby
in it, and then she sent it sailin', sailin' down a
streak of light till it came to the water ; and there
it was rockin' up and down, and the moon watchin'
it. And then another angel comes along, and she
says to the moon, ' Where have you sent my baby ? '
And the moon says, ' I 've sent it to that good,
good man, to be a comfort to him.' "

"An' so you are, my blessed Poppets!" mur-
mured the other, fondly.

" Hush, dad ; I 'm not done. So the moon and
the two angels and the little girl all stood watching
the man. And when he came to the bridge, the
moon shone out very bright and showed him the
little baby ; and they saw him take it up and hold
it in his arms, and then the two angels and the little
girl went away together. Well, the baby was a
very bad baby for a while, and most wore out the
good, good man ; but he took care of it all the
time. And by and by it grew to be a little boy,
and then the man used to send it to school in the
winter, so it could learn to read for him nights.
And after a while he let this little boy go errands
for him — and oh, how glad the little boy was to do
it ! for he used to lie awake nights, wonderin' what
he could do for this good man. Well, the little
boy grew and grew till he got to be a big, strong
man, and he worked hard and saved up his money;
and one day he and the good man, who had got to
be an old man then, left the boat with Ben, who
was a very good man too. And they went off to-
gether, and they got a little home by some trees,
and a pretty field near, with buttercups in it, and a
brook with cresses. Dad, think o' that ! And the
little house had a garden, and the young, strong
man used to work in it ; and then he used to bring
all kinds of nice things to the old man, who sat in
a big chair by the door. And they had a goat —
no, a cow ! Dad, was n't that good ? Wait, dad,
the story 's most done. And they lived there to-
gether a long, long time, and the little boy that
had grown to be a big, strong man was so very,
very happy, 'cause now he could take care of the
good man who had taken care of him. And the
old man he was happy too, and there was nobody
in all the world he loved so well as the little baby
the moon had sent him. And often and often,
dad, the two angels and the little girl used to come
there too, though the young man and the old man
could n't see them ; and they were all so happy,
'cause the good, good man was happy too. And
that 's all. Dad, do you like it ? Why, dad, you
are cryin' ! "

i88

POPPETS.

[Janim j

" Bless my little Poppets ! " — and "dad" stooped
to kiss the flushed cheeks again and again.

And still the moon shone softly, steadily down.
Ben had long ago tumbled into his bunk, and the
two were left alone together. Poppets had laid his
head on his protector's breast, and was watching,
half asleep, the sparkle of the light upon the water.

Soon the bells rang out over the city, chimijl
the hour of twelve. Poppets was asleep. The otlJ
only drew him a little closer; he had often slil
the night through so before. In his dreams, ll
child was seeing the little cottage of his hopes, al
far into the night John Briggs sat holding him i\m
puffing silently at his pipe.

a <f f ^% j l^/^Q^Ofl

Gregory Griggs, Gregory Griggs,

Had twenty-seven different wigs.

He wore them up, and he wore them down,

To please the people of London town.

He wore them east, and he wore them west,

But he never could tell which he liked the best.

>7.J

THE GREYHOUNDS WARNING.

189

THE GREYHOUND'S WARNING.

By Hezekiah Butterworth.

LD stories are now in fashion,
and here is a Christmas story
that was told to my grand-
mother by her grandmother,
who heard it from an old
lady once in attendance upon
the royal family in the days
of King Charles I.

Charles I., you remem-
ber, founded a colony in this
jntry in very early times, and in honor of his
Ling and beautiful Queen, Henrietta Maria, he
led it Terra Marias, or Mary-land. He gath-
:d fifteen hundred orphan children from the
;ets of London, and sent them to Mary-land ;
1 these settlers, in the long-forgotten Christmas
re, loved to hear and recount the legends of the
irt of Charles ; and so this story came from a
irt lady who visited Maryland in early colonial
ies, and who, as I have said, told it to my grand-
ther's grandmother.

Hampton Court Palace, which is still in perfect
servation, was a grand old English manor in
■s that are dim in history. It was the palace of
mptuous old Cardinal Woolsey; and here, after-
•d, kings were born, and queens were married,
I disappointed princes grew gray and died.
•Hoody Mary celebrated Christmas here on one
asion, when she had the great hall illuminated
1 one thousand lamps.

lere Charles I. and his beautiful girl-queen
sed their honeymoon. Marriages for love are
common in old royal families, but Charles had
:d Henrietta Maria ever since he had seen her
ng face at a splendid reception at the court of
nee, and when his ministers failed to arrange a
riage for him, he let his heart speak for itself,
offered his hand to the princess, whose beauty
i first enchanted him. So Henrietta was mar-
to him in France while he was yet in England,
leer old way of doing things that royal families
1 to practice. It was called marrying by proxy.
wedding took place one fair spring day in the
id old cathedral of Notre Dame, which was
g with rich tapestry and tissues of gold and
;t satin, figured with golden lilies or fleurs-de-
Henrietta at this time was about fifteen years
ge, so she was hardly more than a little girl
n Charles first fell in love with her.
r e cannot stop to tell you of the gala days that
wed the marriage, or the gay ship that bore

the girl-queen over to England, to meet the king
she had wedded. The pageants faded as she drew
near to London, for the plague was in the city, and
bells clanged and tolled every minute of the day.
But the gay Duke of Buckingham made a splendid
banquet for the royal pair at his residence at Bur-
leigh-on-the-Hill, and it was on this occasion that
Jerfry Hudson, the famous dwarf of Charles's court,
was first presented to the queen, being served in a
large pie on the table. When the pie was cut,
Jeffry jumped out, armed cap-a-pie.

But the honeymoon went by, and the best days
of the king's life passed, and the storm of the
English revolution began to gather. There were
riots in London, and long and angry Parliaments,
and the queen fled away for safety, and the king
found himself a prisoner at last in Hampton Court
Palace, where the happy days of his honeymoon
had passed, when life lay fair before him.

Two of his children were with him much of the
time in these perilous days — the Princess Elizabeth
and the young Duke of Gloucester. They were his
hand-in-hand companions in his walks in Paradise,
as the Hampton Court Palace gardens were called.
The Princess Elizabeth was her father's favorite, a
tender-hearted, fair-haired child, frail as a flower,
her pure soul shining through her pale face like a
lamp through a vase of alabaster. It was to her,
as he took her on his knee, that the king confided
his last messages to the queen before his execution.
"Tell' her, sweetheart," he said, "I loved her to
the last."

The Duke of Gloucester was younger than the
princess, but older in heroic appearance and larger
in stature, for Elizabeth was a wee, frail thing.

The king had a favorite hound. It was always
with him when he was alone or with his children ;
it guarded the door of his chamber at night ; its
only delight seemed to be to do the bidding of his
royal master, and to receive his caresses.

Charles was one day amusing himself with his
children in the Hampton Court garden, when a
wild-looking woman drew near, and, holding out a
thin hand, said :

•' Alms?"

She was a strange fright of a creature, and the
children thoughtlessly laughed at her, which sent
the blood tingling into the furrows of her cheek.

" Who are you ? " asked the king.

" They call me a gypsy," answered the woman,
assuming a mysterious look. " I foretell events."

190

THE GREYHOUNDS WARNING.

[jANl'Alj

The king was not overawed by her air of mys-
tery, but told her that she must at once leave the
place.

She moved away darkly and sullenly, when the
children uttered an audible laugh. She caught the
sound, and turned sharply.

The king was caressing the hound. The fact
that a brute was faring better than she, seemed to
increase her bitter feeling.

"He can play now," she said, looking enviously
toward the dog. " Let him. A dog will howl one
day, and then the kingdom will want for a king ;
then the kingdom will go."

The king seemed to be disturbed by the evil
prophecy. He addressed the strange woman in a
softer tone, and offered her money.

The black lines faded partly out of her face, and
she courtesied lower and said :

"A dog will die in this palace one day; then
the kingdom shall be restored again."

People were very prone to believe in omens,
signs and fortune-telling at this time, and the
gypsy's words became known in the palace, and
were treasured up to see if they would come to
pass.

There was nothing remarkable in the prophecy.
If one were to say that a dog would howl in Queen
Victoria's park at Balmoral before the Queen
should die, or that the cock should crow in the
grounds of Windsor Castle before the Prince of
Wales should take the throne, it would probably
all come to pass, and if so common an event were
looked for, it might seem to unthinking people
quite a remarkable thing.

The civil war grew more fierce ; the king's life
was threatened ; the king began secretly to plan
an escape from Hampton Court, and from this tur-
bulent part of the kingdom. He was really a
prisoner in his palace; old friends were everywhere
turning against him, and he was sometimes made
to feel that his only friend, except his children, was
his faithful hound.

" Poor thing, poor thing ! he is faithful to me,"
said the king one day. " But how can I be faith-
ful. I may leave you one day, good fellow, and
then a* dog will howl. It is a pitiable case when
a king cannot be true even to his dog."

The hound seemed to understand the king's
great trouble, and at such times would lick his
master's hand, and would press his knee and whine,
as though to break the reverie.

It was toward the close of a dark afternoon on
the nth of November, 1647. Night came early,
with no ray of sunset. The palace gardens were
obscured in a deep mist, and the river ran dark
below them, with hardly a ray to penetrate the
gloom.

The king ate an early supper, and then retird
with his favorite dog. It was his custom to go
his chamber for devotions immediately after tl
evening meal.

It was very still in the palace ; very gloom
with the dull sound of the November rain ince
santly falling. Occasionally the step of the gua 1
was heard on the corridor. The little duke ai
the princess were waiting the return of their fath
in a dimly lighted room near the banquet hall.

He did not come. The foot of the guard sound
firmer, and became impatient.

Suddenly the pitiful howl of the king's hou
broke the silence of the palace.

The little duke heard it, and started to go to '.
father's chamber. The young princess follow
him, a strange look of terror in her baby face, a
her eyes filled with tears.

The children came to the main stair-way, wh
they were ordered back by an attendant. In th
retreat they again heard the hound in their fatht
chamber utter the same friendless, piteous howl.

There was a back staircase that led up to t
same room. The children passed silently throu
the empty apartments that led to it, and wi
startled again and again on their noiseless way
the pitiful howling of the dog, which now began
be piercing in its distress.

Just as they arrived at the foot of the stairca
a heavy sound was heard at the chamber di
above. It was answered by a sharp bark from
hound.

" Father must have gone," said the little prince
" what made the dog howl so?"

There was a crash at the door above. The yoij
princess clasped her brother in fear, and tried |
draw him back.

"They are breaking into his room," said
prince ; "let us go to him ; let us defend him."|

There was a hurried step and a cry on the stal
The children drew back; the hound came bouj
ing down and ran up to them and around then j
anxiety and terror. There were more footsteps!
the stairs, and another cry :

" Give the alarm ; the king has escaped ! "

Years pass. The stormy scenes of the Engl
Revolution are over. King Charles I. has
slept in the silent vaults of St. George's Cha;|
and his separated children have grown to manhi
and womanhood in exile.

There came to Hampton Court Palace one
summer day, Oliver Cromwell. Protector of
Commonwealth of England. He, too, was attenl
by a faithful dog. He slept in the old royal apl
merit, and his dog kept guard at the door,
awoke one morning, but his dog did not comJ

THE GREYHOUND S WARNING.

I 9 I

m. He arose and found that the trusty animal
is dead.

■ Oliver Cromwell was a stern man, but, like most
en of that day, he was superstitious. He believed

signs and omens and witchcraft, and he had
:ard of the withered gypsy's prophecy.
He was shaken in health, and the sight of the
:ad dog awakened his nervous fears. " Alas ! "

said, " the kingdom has departed."

Cromwell soon died, and. as all our school-
children know, Charles II., son of the first Charles,
came back to the throne, amid great rejoicings
and celebrations.

And this is the old story — a curious mingling of
true history and superstition — that was told over
and over again in the Christmas-tide to open-
mouthed groups around Maryland firesides in the
old Colonial times.

HAPPY NF.W YEAR '

192

GREAT-GRANDFATHER S BOORS AND PICTURES.

[January

GREAT-GRANDFATHER'S BOOKS AND PICTURES.

By II . E. Scudder.

I HAVE just been looking at an " Indestructible.
Picture Book of Mother Hubbard and her Dog,"
which is the first book in my little girl's library. I
am afraid it will not last many days more, in spite
of its name, and it is very certain that her great-
grandchildren will never see it, though I hope they
will see one like it ; at least I hope they will care
for Mother Hubbard and her Dog, and I am pretty
sure they will. There are books read by children
to-day which their great-grandfathers were reading
a hundred years ago ; and there is one little book
not so much read by children now, which was not
only well known to their great-grandfathers but to
the great-grandfathers of their great-grandfathers ;
that is, to such as were born and bred in New Eng-
land or of New England parents. It is " The New
England Primer," a little book not much largerthan
a baby's hand, which was once almost universally
used in New England as the first book for children.
You would not think it a very bright-looking book,
but it was a useful one, for it had all the let-

Iri A d a m ' s Fall
We finned all.

Heaven to find,
The Bible Mind,

Chrift crucify'd
For finners dy'd.

The Deluge drown'd
The Earth around.

Elijah hid
By Ravens fed.

The judgment: made
Felix afraid.

letters, which are enough to make one's head ach
as they stand in a row :

t\, ft, fi, fl, ffi, ffl, fh, fi, fk ffi, (1, ff, ft,

The primer was the entrance to spelling an
reading for all children : with its alphabet to sta

As runs the Glass,
Our Life doth pass.

My Book and Heart
Must never part.

Job feels the Rod, —
Yet bleffes GOD.

Proud Korah's troop
Was fwallowed up

Lot fled to Zoar,
Saw fiery Shower
On Sodom pour.

M oses was he
Who Israel's Hofb
Led thro' the Sea.

ters of the alphabet, not only the regular letters
from A to &, which brought up the rear with a
lively flourish of its little tail, but a list of the double

with, it gradually led the way, by column afl
column of easy syllables, up to words of six syl
bles, and then began the reading. But I do r
believe that children then waited to spell all t
easy and hard words before they looked at the pi
ures further on. There was a picture for eve
letter of the alphabet except &, and against ea
picture two short lines, which rhymed, were easy
learn, and impossible to forget. I suppose the
are thousands upon thousands of grown people ni
in America who, when they were children, learn
these lines, and could say them to-day without kx
ing at the book. But as the New England Prin
has been crowded out by the picture-papers a
magazines and books, now so plentiful, you mi
not have seen it. Therefore, St. Nicholas ri
made exact copies for you of the twenty-four qu<
little pictures and stories which great-grandfatl

877-1

GREAT-GRANDFATHER S BOOKS AND PICTURES.

193

sed to look at. J, you see, is not here, because
.; was only I with another name ; U and V, too,
'ere called the same letter ; and &, as I said, has
picture ; more 's the pity, for they might have
dded : .

An Drew his net
For men did set.

By a little study you can make out all the fig-
res, though the pictures are rather dim.
The pictures are small, and so the one who drew
lem had to make haste to get in everything that
:lped to tell the story. The apples are on the
pee; Adam is known from Eve by his hat ; Noah's
, k is the only dry thing in the Deluge ; Elijah
( in scarcely wait for the eager raven ; and both
lul and Felix see the judgment as plain as if it
sre in the same room.

Many of the rhymes, you sec, tell the stories
lich the children had heard from the Bible, and
e pictures would make the scenes very vivid ;
at troop of Korah's — one can almost hear them
y out as the ground gives way; then how ashamed
b's friends look, and one shudders at the narrow
.:ape of Lot ; while the dripping Israelites are
iking every exertion to get up to Moses.
I suppose, in the picture below. Noah sees the
Ir. in the midst of the black waters — the old
irld — and then holds his hand up in admiration
he sees the ark upon dry ground upon the top

Noah did view
The old world & new

Young Obadias,
David, J o sias
All were pious.

Peter deny'd.
His Lord and cry^d.

Queen Esther fues
And faves the Jews.

Young pious RtjtHj
Left all for Truth.

Young Sam':, dear
The Lord did fear.

The story about him, David and Josias is brief,
but it would take great-grandfather's mother a long
while to tell the whole story about each. When
she finished, she could have summed them up no
more completely. So, these three having been

Young Timothy
Learnt fin to fly.

V a s t h 1 for Pride,
Was fet afide.

Whales in the bea,
GOD's Yoice obey.

Xerxes did die,
And fo muft I.

YOUTH forward Hips,
Death fooneft nips.

ZACCHEUshe

Did climb the Tree
Our Lord to fee.

Ararat, the new world, which he and his sons,
are huddled in the corner, are to enter upon,
ng Obadias must be the one without a crown.

boys, the story of Ruth is suggested, and one sees
the house left behind ; she is going off with Naomi,
and she was sincere.

Sin, in the picture, is certainly not made win-
ning and beautiful, but the meaning is that young
Timothy saw sin just as hideous as it really was.

You will not think these pictures beautiful, andi
they are not ; but, like the lines at their side, they
are direct. The book was a little book, and when
it was made there were very few books at all made
expressly for children, so that the makers tried to
put as much as they could into this small compass.
They did not expect that children would get all
their reading out of it, but they meant that when
children were learning to spell and to read, they
should be taught something about good living, and
learn some of the things that were n*~ .rest their
fathers' hearts. The Bible was the boo., that their
fathers went to most of all, and so this primer is
full of bits about the Bible, as in the pictures we
have been looking at, and also about religion and
duty, as their fathers understood these. Just after
this picture alphabet is another "Alphabet of Les-
sons for Youth, beginning: " A wise son maketh a.
glad father, but a foolish son is the heaviness of his.
mother." and ending: "Zeal hath consumed me,.

194

GREAT-GRANDFATHER S BOOKS AND PICTURES.

[January

because thy enemies have forgotten the word of
God." There was a Cradle Hymn, a part of which
many children still hear, beginning:

" Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed."

But this was not in the very old primer, for it was .
not then written, and there were other verses and
short proverbs which those who learnt probably
remembered long after they had forgotten larger
books.

There was but one other picture, and that was to
keep alive the remembrance of terrible times in
England, which had been suffered by the great-
grandfathers of those who first used the New Eng-
land primer. It was the picture of John Rogers,
as follows :

Beneath it was printed : " Mr. John Rogers,
minister of the gospel in London, was the first
martyr in Queen Mary's reign, and was burnt at
Smithfield, February 14, 1554. His wife, with
nine small children, and one at her breast follow-
ing him to the stake ; with which sorrowful sight
he was not in the least daunted, but with wonder-
ful patience died courageously for the gospel of
Jesus Christ."

The first people who came to New England had
grave fears lest the times of Queen Mary were
coming again in England, and it is not to be won-
dered at that they should keep alive the memory
of these things. How many children have counted
that little flock, to see if the nine were all there,
and have looked with terror at John Rogers in the
fire, and the pleased, smiling faces of the soldiers
who kept guard over Mrs. Rogers and her children !

The New England primer was not the only little
book which great-grandfather had. There were
not many books made in America then, and this
was almost the only one made expressly for chil-
dren ; nor were there very many made or written in

England for children alone in those days. Ii
reading the lives and recollections of those
lived at the time of the revolution, or shortl
after, one finds mention of a few books for littl
children which are still read. " Mother Goose
Melodies " is an American book, and was mad
more than a hundred years ago. Many of th
rhymes in it, most indeed, are English nurser
songs, brought over in the head to this country
but there was a real Mother Goose in Bostor
who sang the little ditties to her daughter's ch
dren, and her daughter's husband, who was
printer, collected them into a book. Then we red
of " Goody Two Shoes," which was quite we'
known, and there were a good many scraps of hit
tory, and anecdotes in almanacs, as there are now
But then, as now, children read the same books th;
their fathers read. Indeed, that was much moi
common then, for it is only within the last hut
dred years, more especially the last twenty-five
thirty, that there have been many books and maj
azines especially for children. But there were Ion
ago books written, like "'The Arabian Nights
" Robinson Crusoe," and "Gulliver's Travels," tl
authors of which were not thinking of children
all; and yet these books have come to be res
almost entirely by the young. Great-grandfath
had these books, and he read besides many boo
which children to-day, with books of their own, a
less likely to see. There was John Randolph,
Roanoke, for instance, a notable Virginian, wl
was born in 1773. The first book that fell in
way was Voltaire's "History of Charles XII.
Sweden." He found a closet full of books, z\
before he was eleven years old he had read "T
Spectator," " Humphrey Clinker," " Reynard t
Fox," " The Arabian Nights," " Tales of t
Genii," "Goldsmith's Roman History," and an (
"History of Braddock's War," "Don Quixoti
"Gil Bias," "Quintus Curtius," " Plutarch's Live
" Pope's Homer," " Robinson Crusoe," " Gullivt
Travels," " Tom Jones," " Orlando Furioso," a!
" Thompson's Seasons " — a queer lot, but some
them great books, which it would be well to re
now, instead of weak and foolish ones.

Then there were parents in those days vi
thought much of what their boys were readi
and thinking about. Listen to what John Qui
Adams — which President was he? — says of
mother :

" In the spring and summer of 1775, she tan
me to repeat, daily, after the Lord's Prayer, bef
rising from bed, the Ode of Collins on the pati
warriors who fell in the war to subdue the Jacob
rebellion of 1745 :

" ' How sleep the brave who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blest!'"

177-1

GREAT-GRAND F ATHER S BOOKS AND PICTURES.

'95

' And here is a letter from the same John Quincy
hdams, written, when he was ten years old, to his
ither, John Adams, absent then at Congress :

Braintree, June 2, 1777.

'Dear Sir: I love to receive letters very well, much better than I

b ve to write them. I make but a poor figure at composition ; my

tad is much too fickle: my thoughts are running after birds' eggs,

ay, and trifles, till I get vexed with myself. Mamma has a troublc-

me task to keep me steady, and I own I am ashamed of myself.

' have but just entered the third volume of Smollett [History of

igland], though I had designed to have got half through by this

lie. I have determined this week to be more diligent, as Mr.

Sacher [his tutor] will be absent at court, and I cannot pursue my

icr studies. I have set myself a stent, and determine to read the

xd volume half out.

When the Revolution was over, the schools of
e country were in a very bad way. The country
is poor, there were very few books of an)- kind,
id school-books were of the poorest sort. It was
? this time that Noah Webster, who made the dic-
inary later in his life, and was now a poor school-
aster, determined to make a speller, a grammar
'.id a reader for schools. His grammar and reader
'ire long since forgotten, but his speller is still
ed all over our country. It is a different book,
1 Iwever, from the first speller which he made,
tat, like " The New England Primer" of his
andfather, not only taught the alphabet and
felling, but tried to teach the little American some
> ) the lessons in goodness and patriotism, which
bah Webster saw were much needed. It was the

ly book that a great many children had, and it
'd pictures — pictures a little bigger than those

the primer, but very much of the same kind.

om a very early time fables have been written

d told to teach simple truths, and Webster put
few fables into his book, and a picture to each.

:re are some of them :

FABLE I.

Of the Boy that stole Apples.

&N old Man found a rude Boy upon one of hla
es stealing Apples, and desired him to come

down ; but the young Sauce-box told him plainly
he would not. Won't you? said the old Man,
then I will fetch you down ; so he pulled en soma
tufts of Grass, and threw at him ; but this only
made the Youngster laugh, to think the old Man
should pretend to beat him down from the tree
with grass only.

Well, well, said the old Man, if neither -words
nor grass -will do, I must try what virtue there is
in Stones ; so the old man pelted him heartily with
stones ; which soon made the young Chap hasten
down from the tree and beg the old Man's pardon.

MORAL.

If good words and gentle means will not reclaim (Tie
wicked, they must be dealt with in a more severe manner

SMMM^j

SHI

FABLE II.
The Country Maid and her Milk Pail.

WHEN men suffer their imagination to amuse
them, with the distant and uncertain improvements
of their condition, they frequently sustain real losses,
by their inattention to those affairs in which they arc
immediately concerned.

A country Maid was walking very deliberately
■with a pail of milk upon her head, when she fell
into the following train of reflections : The money
for which I shall sell this milk, will enable me to
increase my stock of eggs to three hundred. These
eggs, allowing for what may prove addle, and what
may be destroyed by vermin, will produce at least
two hundred and fifty chickens. The chickens
will be fit to carry to market about Christmas,
when poultry always bears a good price ; so that by
May day 1 cannot fail of having money enough to
purchase a new Gown. Green — let me consider —
yes, green becomes my complexion best, and green
it shall be. In this dress I will go to the fair
where all the young fellows will strive to have me
fc* a partner ; but I shall perhaps refuse every one
of them, and with an air of disdain, toss from them.
Transported with this triumphant thought, she
could not forbear acting with her head what thus
passed in her imagination, when down came the
pail of milk, and with it all her imaginary happi-
ness.

196

GREAT-GRANDFATHER S BOOKS AND PICTURES.

(Januarv

FABLE III.
The Tex and the Swalter.

ARISTOTLE informs us, tliat tire following
Fable was spoken by Esop to the Saimans, on a
debate upon changing theh-.ministers, c\vho were ac-
cused of plundering the commonwealth.

A Fox swimming across a river, .happened to be
entangled in some weeds that grew near the bank,
from, which he was unable to extricate himself. As
he lay thus exposed to whole swarms of flies,
which were galling him and sucking his blood, a
Swallow, observing his distress, kindly" offered to
drxvjs them away. By no means, said the 1 Fox;
for if these should be chased away, which are al-
ready sufficiently gorged, another more hungry
swarm would succeed, and X should be robbed of
every remaining drop of blood in.my veins.

FABLE IV.

The Cat and the Hat.
A CERTAIN Cat had made such unmerciful
Havoc among the vermin of her neighborhood, that
not a single Rat or iVIouse dared venture to appear
abroad. Puss was soon convinced, that if affairs
remained in their present situation, she must be
totally misapplied with provision. After mature
deliberation, therefore, she resolved to nave re-
course to stratagem. For this purpose, she bus-
pended herself from a hook with, her head down-

wards^ ■ pretending to be dead. The Rats and

.Mice, as they peeped from their holes, observing',
her in this dangling attitude, concluded she was
Hanging for some misdemeanor; and with great joy
Immediately sallied forth in quest of their prey.
Puss, as soon as a sufficient number were collected
together, quitted her hold, dropped into the .midst;
of them ; and very few had the fortune to make
good their retreat. This artifice having succeeded
so weli, she was encouraged to try the event of a'
second. Accordingly she whitened her coat. all
over, by rolling herself in. a heap of flour, andin
tills disguise lay concealed in the bottom of "a mea :
tub. This stratagem was executed in genenurwill
the same effect as the former. But an. old expeB
rienced Rut, altogether as cunning as his adversai*
ry, was not so easily ensnared. I don't much likdji
said he, that white heap yonder j Something whi< ( »
pers me there is mischief concealed under it. 'Til
true it may be meal j hut it may likewise be some
thing that I should not relish quite so well. Ther
can be no harm at least in keeping at a proper die :
tance; for caution, I am sure, is the parent c!n
safety.

FABLE V.

The Tax and the Bramble.

A FOX, closely pursued by a pack of ~Do\
took shelter under the covert of a Bramble, li
rejoiced in this asylum ; and for a while, was vs|J
happy j but soon found that if he attempted to si
he was wounded by thorns and prickles on evil
side. However, making a virtue of necessity,
forbore to complain ; and comforted himself
reflecting that no bliss is perfect ; that good :|
evil are mixed, and flow from the same fount:!
These Briars, indeed, said he, will tear my si
a little, yet they keep^ off the dogs. For the si
of the good then let me bear the evil with
trence; each bitter has its sweet: and these Brs
bles, though they wound my flesh, preserve
life from clanger.

Like the primer, Webster's speller was small, m
had no room for long stories ; but you have seen

877-1

THE TWO DOROTHYS.

197

nuch could be gotten into these little fables with
jheir pictures. In the first one of these funny old
; rood-cuts there is a story that any one can under-
Hand, and it is told in a very lively fashion. The
I Id man in his continental coat has only got as far
Js words in the picture, and the boy is just reach-
gig out his arm for the round apple near him. If
tnother picture had been given, the old man's coat
P'ould have been off, and that boy would have been
[i;en slithering down the trunk of the tree. But
/Were was only one picture to a fable.
" I wonder if the moral of the second fable was
Tinted at the top for fear it would not be read if
, came at the end of the story. The poor milk-
maid looks rather forlorn in the picture. The toss
;' her head is there still ; she was too shocked with
:r grief to put her head back again.
Webster was a man who watched politics very
osely, and it is not impossible that he put in the
ird fable with an eye to something then going on
the country. If he had made the fable longer,
•rhaps he would have made the fox call upon
Ime friend to help him cut the weeds away in
hich he was entangled. But there is no doubt
at those flies, so orderly and determined, would
enough to drive any fox wild.
Did you ever think before reading Fable IV. what
s the origin of that phrase, " A cat in the meal? "
was the old experienced rat, you see, that first
d it, only he said it in rather longer words. It
iji iuld be pretty hard to tell from the picture what

all the delicacies were on the table, but there is no
doubt that the cat made herself look extremely
like a dead cat. Is that a ham hanging on the
wall ? I can't quite make it out.

I am afraid the artist gave up the difficult task
of showing the dogs in the last picture ; and with-
out the story it would be rather hard to tell what
the picture meant. How different all these pictures
are from the new ones which you see on turn-
ing the leaves of St. Nicholas ! A great deal
has been learned in this country about drawing
and engraving pictures, just as there has been a
great deal more attention given to writing books
and stories for children. Yet some of these pict-
ures, like some of the stories, have this about
them, that they are perfectly intelligible and are
easily remembered. When you compare these old-
fashioned books which great-grandfather had with
those which you now have, — with St. NICHOLAS,
for instance, — and remember how much greater
and more prosperous this country is than it was in
great-grandfather's day, do not forget that great-
grandfather helped to make the country what it is,
and that the books which he read and the pictures
he looked at, helped to make him what he was.
So, as we have been reading fables and their morals,
here is the moral of what I have been saying, and
you must not skip it : Our books and pictures are
not only to amuse us, but to make us wise and
good; if they do not, then the better they are the
•worse we shall be.

is' '

THE TWO DOROTHYS.
By C. F. Jackson.

)orothy Patten Sylvester had come to

grandfather's to make a visit. A visit to grand-

1a was to each one of the seven Sylvesters the

'1 'St delightful thing that could be imagined. They

e, all of them, always ready to go there when-

ioiS \ grandpapa and grandmamma sent for one or

1 of them, only the trouble was to decide which

:hem should have the pleasure. This time,

"'jjEpge to say, Dorothy was alone: I will tell you

.,„! t i' happened. Of course, everybody wanted to

Philadelphia, to the Centennial celebration ;

all through the spring, poor little Dorothy was

Nth a fever. When she was well enough to

, , ut she was still thin, and weak, and pale ; and

papa and mamma thought a crowded city was not
the place in which to find fresh roses for their little
girl's cheeks ; so they decided to let Dorothy make
a visit to grandpapa's, while the rest of the family
went to Philadelphia, and although she was disap-
pointed at first, she soon cheered up and began to
talk of all the delightful things she would see and
do in the country. Then Charley and Frank had
promised to write her about everything they saw,
and Phil had given her Prince, his black-and-tan
terrier, to take care of while he was away. Besides,
Bessie, the sister nearest her in age, had agreed
that her doll, Alice Rosamunda Temple, should
keep a diary of everything of interest that hap-

198

THE TWO DOROTHYS.

[Januak 1

pened to her, for Dorothy's doll, Susan Araminta
Lorraine. Then, best of all, they were to bring
back from Philadelphia some one whom Dorothy
had never seen, and whose acquaintance she wanted
very much to make. Agnes Sylvester, her eldest
sister, had married two years before, and was living
in Philadelphia, and the children had never seen-
her baby boy ; so you may imagine how much
Dorothy wanted them all to come home, particu-
larly Master Dicky Leigh. There were a few tears
shed when Dorothy saw them all drive off from
grandpapa's, where they had left her ; but grand-
mamma soon comforted her, by taking her over to
Mrs. Smith's to drink tea, or rather, as far as she
and little Rose Smith were concerned, rich, yellow
Aldemey milk, with as many strawberries as their
plates could hold ; and then the walk home through
the clover fields by starlight was so pleasant !

The next day, Dorothy ran about the farm till
noon ; now in the barn to look for fresh-laid eggs in
the hay ; now with grandpapa to the pasture, to pat
the pretty Alderney calves who would come quite
close, and lick her hands with their rough tongues,
and then jump away and pretend to be frightened
when she came a little nearer to them ; off again
to the dell behind the house to look for wild flowers,
until, quite hot, and tired out, she came into the
cool front room where grandmamma sat reading in
the middle of the afternoon. "You have run too
hard, Dot," said grandma, "and have got heated ;
I can't allow that, or we shall be having the fever
back, and then papa and mamma will never lend
you to me again. Come, now, go up to your room
and take a little rest ; then you can come down
again when it is cool and pleasant, just before tea."

" I will, grandma ; but may I take Fuzzy for com-
pany ?" Consent was given, so Dot and Fuzzy went
upstairs. Fuzzy was a gray kitten, who considered
it necessary to be always on the lookout for ene-
mies; for at the slightest noise she would put up
her back, and every individual hair on her body
would stand straight out. She had met with an
accident to her tail in early youth ; about an inch
had been cut off, and the rest was very thick and
bushy ; so when she was angry she would make the
hairs stand out on it till she looked exactly like a
fuzzy ball. Dorothy was devoted to her in spite of
her bad temper, which she declared was soured by
the loss pussy had met with, and no wonder, for it
must be very trying and mortifying to be so differ-
ent from one's acquaintances. Fuzzy and she were
on the best of terms at all times, so when Dorothy
caught her up from the porch, where she was com-
fortably washing herself, she made no resistance,
but allowed her little friend to carry her off up-
stairs.

Dorothy's room looked very quiet and pleasant,

and she nestled down on the soft, white bed, witl
Fuzzy in her arms, to rest and grow cool.

It was a low, old-fashioned room, with a higl
bureau and heavy carved cabinet, that had stood il
the same place for generations ; there was one stifl
straight-backed chair, and two or three others ncl
so old, but much more comfortable ; a polishc
floor that had never known a carpet, but which ha
now a new, pretty rug spread over it ; and best 1
all, a wide, low, western window through which, th
hot summer day, came the drowsy hum of insect
the ceaseless distant noise of falling water, and tt
steady whir of the mill-wheel. The house was tr
oldest for many miles around, and there had bet
fewer alterations in this room than in any othe
The Pattens had never been a race who lovt
change, so the high clock that had ticked the mi
utes, and struck the hours for a hundred years pa;
still stood at the head of the stairs. The long mi
ror, with peacocks cut. in relief on its heavy woodi
frame, yet hung over the dining-room mantel, at
now reflected the rosy-cheeked Sylvester childre
as it had reflected the little Ruths, Dorothys, E
wards, of years ago ; or the ruffles, puffs, brocads
and powdered hair of their elders ; there was si
in grandmamma's room the rosewood secretary, wi
its secret drawer, which little Dot held in such awl
and about which she had made up so many storicl
In the dining-room hung the powder-horn whil
the private in great-grandfather's regiment hi
given him, with the plan of his native New Englal
town cleverly cut upon it ; the streets laid out f
regular order, and the queer old meeting-hous
steeples, windows, and all marked out with exa|
ness in their places.

All these things, and many others, our Dorotl
loved to look at ; and now her thoughts wandeil
back to the little girl who had lived in this sai|
room a hundred years before. Many stories of I
childhood and girlhood in those exciting, troubkl
times of the Revolution were familiar to all II
Sylvesters, as were also those of the calm, swl
old age, which she had come back to spend in 1
early home. Grandpapa had often told them, til
the memory of such a life as hers was a better hil
tage than old house or lands ; and it always seenl
to Dorothy that something especially bright i\
secret lingered about the place where so much!
this good life had been spent. Now, as she lay j]
the bed she began to think about the old room t j
had looked so nearly the same for so many yeail

" I wonder, " she thought, " what sort of a lii
girl that first Dorothy Patten was ! There 's tl
picture of her down-stairs, in a cap. How funinj
think she was ever little like me, when she lil
ever so long ago. There was the first Dorothy tl
lived in this very room a hundred years ago ; t|

377-i

THE TWO D O R O T II Y S .

I99

jiere was her little Dorothy Patten Sylvester; then
er son, that 's grandpa, had his Dorothy ; then
lerc 's me, called for Aunt Dorothea; always a
lorothy for a hundred years. I 'm so glad old Uncle
dward Patten — 1 Ye never told you this, Fuzzy,
tad you 're so intimate you ought to know — mam-
1a says family affairs ought n't to be talked of to
rangers ; but I don 't mind telling you, Fuzzy, if
du promise never to tell Mis. Smith's Blackey ;
ut you see when Uncle Edward, whom I never
; iw, 'cause it was years and years ago, died, he said
his will that grandpa was to come and live here ;
1 tad I 'm so glad, for it 's the nicest place that ever-
as, and grandma ' said it was so funny that I should
ave the very room my great — great — great — oh, I
>n 't know how many greats — grandmother, an-
her Dorothy had, a hundred years ago. I won-
ir did they call her Dolly, or Dot, as they do
e? How many names! Dorothea — Dorothy —
oily — D-o-t ; " that was the end of the little girl's
inking; and Fuzzy, who had watched her closely,
1 she was quite sure she was asleep, bounded from
e bed, and ran down-stairs to her old place on
e porch to finish her washing.

" Dorothy, daughter, come down to me ! "
" Yes, mother."

Doroflry answered the call at once, but she

ought as she went that something unfamiliar had

ien drawn like a veil over everything she was ac-

stomed to since the last time she had passed

; rough the halls and down the stair-way. It was

'rs. Sylvester, certainly; but her little girl had

' ver seen her in such a dress. Her dark hair was

led up very high over a cushion ; she wore a

aight, narrow, brocaded over-dress, with a petti-

at of darker stuff showing beneath it ; sleeves,

ht to the elbow, and flowing below; and muslin

ded over her neck, showing her white, slender

"oat. She held an open letter in her hand, and

iked troubled.

:'" My child. Deacon Peter Johnson has just driven
re in his chaise. He left Dalford yesterday,
.yed the night at the Red Lion tavern, and came
re the first place. He brings me this letter

m your grandmother; she writes she is sick, and
s a wish to see me : I will go this afternoon,
idng you with me. The coach passes through at
;lf-past three, so we must at once put our things
the little hair trunk. Do you go up and lay out
the bed your tippet and best dress, together with
ur bonnet ; put out also the other needful things
yourself and me against I come up, and be care-
that you do not drop upon the floor the fresh
'igs of lavender I laid in your drawer the last
ursday."
' But, mother, in that gown ? " rose to Dorothy's

lips. "Assuredly, my child ; one must make a good
appearance, you know." And her mother looked
complacently down on the dress that had struck
her daughter so strangely." Dorothy turned slow-
ly to go up the stairs, for the habit of obedience
was strong, but much she wondered to herself.

" Grandma sick at Dalford ! Why, she had left
her but a little while before, perfectly well, down-
stairs. Tippet! Straw bonnet! What did it mean ?
She felt sure that when she opened the old cabinet
she would find her pretty brown suit and hat with
the daisies. She opened it, however, and looked
in. There, folded neatly away, with a white cloth
over, on which were scattered sprigs of lavender,
lay a brocaded dress with a tippet and black silk
apron ; and in the closet above, a straw hat of im-
mense size, trimmed with a blue ribbon. Carefully
did Dorothy lift them out and lay them on the bed.
"Be quick, Dorothy; be quick. The coach will
be here presently. Your knitting, child." Doro-
thy gave her mother the half-knit stocking, and
stood silently by as she rapidly and neatly packed
the little hair trunk, closely studded with nails ;
leaving out the hat for her to wear on the journey.
A few more preparations for herself, and then they
both came down to the door.

" You will take good care of the house, Deborah,
till my return," said Mrs. Sylvester, turning to the
old colored woman. "Now call Silas to follow
with our trunk. Good-day. "

As Dorothy stepped out of the door she was con-
scious of a strangeness in the objects around her;
the country was familiar, and yet not what she had
ever before seen. Where was the stable? Where
was Mr. Wright's new house? And, why, there was
a clover field instead of Mrs. Smith's brown cottage.
She would have asked her mother ; but Mrs. Syl-
vester looked so troubled, and walked on so fast,
that the child could hardly keep up with her.
Silas marched behind, in a blue coat and knee-
breeches, carrying the light little trunk. As they
went on, Dorothy looked in vain for the station and
the railroad, but presently her attention was at-
tracted by a singular-looking object that had just
appeared at the turn of the road beyond them. It
was some sort of a vehicle, for it was drawn by four
horses who were dashing along the road quite fast,
while the driver shouted to encourage them, and
flourished his whip in the air.

The stage-coach, for this it proved to be, was
painted bright yellow, and was very high indeed.
Mrs. Sylvester exclaimed in delight at seeing it,
and said :

"There, I thought if we came on this road we
would just be in time. We should have missed it
if we had gone to the tavern. Stop them, Silas."

They moved to the side of the road and waited,

200

THE TWO DOROTHYS.

[JanuahI

while Silas flourished hat and stick and grew quite
hoarse shouting to the driver to stop. He saw them
and drew up his horses. The steps were let down,
and a gentleman sprang out to help them. Dorothy
thought she could never get up into that high
thing, but she managed to do it with the assistance
of the strange gentleman and Silas. There was one
lady in the coach, but she and the gentleman were
the only passengers beside themselves. Dorothy
looked in wonder at the lady's bonnet. It had
quite a small crown, but flared out to an immense
size in front, coming away out beyond the face. A

plete suit of drab, made, however, in the sanl
fashion as that of Silas ; his hair was quite lorl
and powdered, and fastened in a queue behind, j

" Did thee ever travel by coach before, my littl
friend ? " he said presently.

"No, sir," answered Dorothy, timidly, "and
do not like it very much."

"Perhaps thee is afraid to go so fast; but we ai
quite safe — there is no need to fear."

"Oh, that is not it at all," she answered; b
stopped suddenly, quite unable to tell the gentl
man that she liked the cars better because th'

yellow ribbon was fastened around the crown, over
which curled a white feather, and from it all floated
a gossamer veil. She also wore slippers and black
mitts, and carried a reticule. For the first time,
then, Dorothy noticed that her mother wore a bon-
net almost exactly similar, but trimmed with pink.
This surprised her very much, but she was on the
lookout now for astonishing things. She soon
became tired out with the jolting and disagreeable
swaying of the high coach, but her mother and the
lady talked on serenely, seeming quite at ease and
comfortable.

Presently the gentleman looked kindly at her,
and she was struck with the benevolent expression
of his face ; she also noticed that he wore a corn-

were so much faster. Somehow she could not
the words ; she felt that they would be utterly
meaning to the serene old gentleman opposite,
she kept quiet and listened to what her mothen
saying to the lady.

" My husband is at present at New York w
General 'Washington. I expect, daily, news fr
him, for it is three weeks since I have heard,
there is so much to fear with this continual fig
ing. Can you kindly tell me, sir," she said, tu
ing to the old gentleman, "what is the latest ri
from our troops?"

" The last I have heard, friend," said he, inre|
"is that matters are quiet just now. Gerr
Howe has established his head-quarters at Sti

77-]

THE TWO DOROTHYS.

20I

and, and an attack is soon expected. It is much
be desired," he added, earnestly, "that some
;ans may be found for averting more bloodshed,
ii d at the same time preserving us in our rights."
-Dorothy spoke now, but the words came in quite
different form from that she was accustomed to.
" Honored sir," she said, sedately, " is there not
nething at present happening in the city of
liladelphia ? Many persons whom I know have

(ne thither to attend the C — C — C " She

aid not form the word she wanted, and the gentle-
llin came to her assistance.

'"Congress," you mean, my child," he said, and
;>ugh she was perfectly certain she did n't mean
b 'she was unable to say a single word. " Yes,
ngress is meeting there, and we may trust it
1 find some remedy for our sorrows. The state
our land is indeed miserable."
Dorothy said nothing more during the journey,
she was trying to understand what everybody
i everything meant. They did not stay over-
lit at the inn, as the coach went on, and her
ther was anxious to reach Dalford. They said
jd-bye to the kind Quaker gentleman, whom
>s. Sylvester called Friend Timothy, and later in
i evening to the lady.

!t was quite late when they reached her grand-
ther's, and Dorothy had not yet been able to ask
■ mother how it happened that her father was at
w York, and there was fighting there. Mrs.
vester engaged a man to carry her little trunk
Mistress Patten's, and the little girl followed her
d over unfamiliar paths till they stopped in front
a low red farm-house. Her mother paid the
n, who went off, and Dorothy and she entered
house. The little girl looked round with curi-
y. The room was long and low, with a huge
-place at one end ; the floor was well sanded ;
1 on a table in the middle of the room were set
is and saucers, while an old colored woman
3d in front of the fire stirring something in a
She turned as they entered, and eagerly
^corned her visitors, saying her mistress was
a.,.ch better. Mrs. Sylvester hurried into the next
m to see the old lady, leaving Dorothy in the
,;hen, and she employed her time in looking
und her.

/he room was spotlessly neat ; in one corner
)d a spinning-wheel, and near it a distaff and
;idle, and a tall vase of flowers stood in the
dow.

Irs. Sylvester soon returned, and told Dorothy

50 upstairs and lay off her bonnet and tippet.

en she came down again, old Rachel, the colored

, nan was still at work in the kitchen, but she

s . nothing to the child, who sat down quietly in a

> ler. Now came a time of confusion to Dorothy.

Vol. IV.— 14.

The room was lighted by one tallow candle and
the' fire-light; the latter made strange dancing
shadows on the wall and ceiling, which took all sorts
of forms to Dorothy's imagination. Sometimes
they made a tumbling coach and dashing horses ;
sometimes a lady whose bonnet and feather grew
bigger and bigger ; sometimes a company of sol-
diers marching, but always, she noticed, they wore
Continental uniforms ; and through all she would
catch the old colored woman looking at her with a
grin, and showing the whites of her eyes. She
would speak, but Rachel never would answer ;
again she would try to speak and could not, and
the old woman would laugh harder than ever at
her attempts. She would shut her eyes, but all the
time she was sure she was being laughed at, and
when she opened them again, there was the old
woman watching her still. Sometimes it was night
and sometimes morning, but Rachel's grinning
never changed or stopped. This went on for
hours, it seemed to Dorothy, till at last she felt
herself growing very hungry, and, after making a
great many vain efforts, she managed to say :

"I'm so hungry; when are we going to have
something to eat, and wont you please just stop
looking at me ? "

The old woman, still laughing, answered :

" I's gwine to grin till Congress tells me to stop,
and when I gets orders from Philadelphy, I '11 git
yers suthin to eat. We does everything here by
orders from Congress, and I guess we 's gwine to
git a message now by the runnin' outside."

Sure enough there was a tumult in the village,
and Dorothy, her mother, her grandmother, Rachel,
and the black cat, all ran out to see what the noise
was about. It was bright daylight now ; a crowd
was gathered in the village around a horseman, who
had spurred his weary horse up to the inn door.
The man's face was hot and red ; his blue coat,
yellow waistcoat, and drab knee-breeches, and even
his cocked hat, were splashed with mud. He looked
quite exhausted, as if he had ridden day and night,
as indeed he had, from Philadelphia. He waved
his whip in the air, however, and shouted: " Hence-
forth we are Free and Independent States ! The
Declaration of Independence is signed ! "

Shouting and cheering followed.

Dorothy slowly opened her eyes, and looked
about her in a bewildered way.

" How I have slept," she said at last, " and what
a strange dream ! I 've been 'way back to the
Revolution."

She rubbed her eyes, and looked down on her
dress, to make sure that she had on her cambric,
and not that funny straight gown with the black silk
apron. Then she looked around the room, almost
expecting to see the lady in the queer bonnet, the

2o:

BALLAD OF MARY JANE.

[Januar-

old Quaker gentleman, or grinning Rachel ; but
she saw only the carved cabinet standing in the
corner, the high bureau, the chairs, and the rays of
the afternoon sun streaming through the window.
Dorothy sat musing on the bed, then shook herself
fairly awake, and rose to dress for tea.

I cannot explain to you the mystery of my story.
Was the dream intended to have fallen gently upon
the closed eyelids of Dorothy the first, a hundred
years ago ; and had it instead lain hidden in the

old room for a century, perhaps in the queer ol
carved cabinet, perhaps lingering about the wair
scotted corners, or in the shadows of the slopin
roof, waiting till Dorothy the second should fa 1
asleep in 1876? I cannot tell you how it was, bi;
I am sure it was very puzzling to our Dorothy I
leave the sunshine and reality of living childhoo.
and wander back through the shadows of a hui
dred years, to enter into the life and borrow tt
dream of her little girl great-grandmother.

THE MODERN AND MEDIEVAL BALLAD OF MARY JANI

By Henry Baldwin.

[This is a shadow-play, which can be performed in any parlor. A sheet is hung between the audience and the performers, who, 1

the proper arrangement of light (which can best be attained by experiment), throw their shadows on the sheet.

Somebody hidden from the audience reads the ballad aloud.]

It was a maiden beauteous —

Her name was Mary Jane ;
To teach the district school she walked

Each morning down the lane.

[She passes and repasses behind the curtain.

Well skilled was she in needle-work,

Egyptian she could speak,
Could manufacture griddle-cakes,

And jest in ancient Greek.

THE STALWART BENJAMIN.

It was the stalwart Benjamin,
Who hoed his father's corn ;

He saw the lovely maiden pass,
At breaking of the morn.

Deep sighed that bold, admiring swain ;

The maid vouchsafed no look —
She munched a sprig of meetin' seed,

And read her spelling-book.

[She enters at left, and ha

A low obeisance made he then ;
Right bravely did he speak :
" There is no rose so fair," he said,
"As that upon thy cheek!

He enters at left.

THE BEAl'TEOt'S MARY JANE.

"And many a brooch and silken gown
Will I bestow on thee,
If thou wilt leave thy father's house
And come and marry me."

THE BALLAD OF MARY JANE.

203

Then proudly spake that lovely maid :
" Thy corn-patch thou may'st till !
I haste to teach the infant mind,
On yonder lofty hill.

" Though never golden brooch have I,
Though silken gown I lack,
I will not wed an husbandman,
So take thine offer back ! "

Oh, fiercely blow the icy blasts

When winter days begin !
But fiercer was the rage that filled

The heart of Benjamin !

He tore in shreds his raven locks,
And vowed he 'd love no more.
" Smile on," he cried, " thou haughty maid,
Thou shalt repent thee sore ! "

"HE TORE IN SHREDS HIS RAVEN LOCKS.

The lady turned, she did not speak,
Her tear-drops fell like rain ;

[Tears represented by small pieces of paper.

Those plaintive words at last did pierce
The heart of Mary Jane !

II.

Oh, blithely sang the soaring lark;

The morning smiled again ;
Up rose the sun, with golden beams,

And up rose Mary Jane.

[The lark should be made of pasteboard, and a
string, passed through his body, should be
stretched diagonally across the sheet By an-
other string fastened to his head, and running
over the upper nail, he may be made to soar.
The sun should rise by a string passed over a
nail in the center, and at the top of the frame-
work on which the sheet is stretched. The
lark should be about as large as the sun.

She gat her lo her daily task,

As on the former morn ;
Alack ! she spied not Benjamin

A-hoeing of the corn. [Enter Mary Jane.

[E SUN. THE SOARING LARK.

No longer, as she trips along.

Her merry songs she sings ;
The tear-drops dim her pretty eyes,

Her lily hands she wrings.

• And art thou gone, sweet Benjamin ?
Ah ! whither hast thou fled ?
My spelling-book has charms no more ;
I would that I were dead ! "

But soon her bitter moan she ceased ;

She viewed her doughty knight,
Delayed not many leagues from thence,

And in most grievous plight.

For as he to his husbandry

That day would fain have passed,

A monster cow his path beset,
And sorely him harassed.

Upon the summit of a wall

He sits, and dares not flee ;
The awful beast its sprangling horns

Doth brandish frightfully.

[The cow, made of pasteboard, should be fastened
to a broom handle, and poked in from one side.
The smaller the cow the better.

THE COW HARASSES BENJAMIN.

Oh, Mary Jane! " he cried, " if you

But love me, do not stay-
To weep, but lend a friendly hand,
And drive the cow away ! "

204

THE BALLAD OF MARY JANE.

[Januar'

Her apron then she quickly takes,
And wipes her streaming eyes;

Not quicker melts the morning dew,
Than to her love she flies.

MARY JANE WAVES HER PARASOL.

The monster turns at her approach,

It shakes its ample tail ;
Take heart, O Benjamin ! thy love

Will neither quake nor quail.

Her parasol that venturous maid

Exalted o'er her head ;
Thrice waved it in the air, and lo !

Straightway the monster fled.

Then tarried not that joyous pair

Fond vows of love to make,
But to the house of Mary Jane

Themselves they did betake.

[As the cow runs away, Benjamin gets down and
approaches Mary Jane till almost close to her.
Then, if both lean forward, the above affecting
tableau is produced. They then take hands,
and the lamp is moved slowly to one side and
obscured : this gives them the appearance of
walking, and allows the father to enter; after
which the lamp is moved back, and the lovers
re-enter.

And out spake grateful Benjamin :
" Forsooth, I had been dead.

Had Mary Jane not saved my life, —
And her I fain would wed."

Up spake her aged sire then ;

Full wrathfully spake he :
How darest thou, thou popinjay,

To ask such thing of me ?

For wert thou but a millionaire,

Then would I not demur ;
Now thou art but an husbandman,

And she — a school-teacher ! "

Oh, sorely, sorely did they grieve !

The cruel parient's heart
Inflexible as stone remained,

And they were torn apart.

[He motions them apa.

THE AGED SIRE IS WRATHFUL.
III.

And now has come Lord Mortimer,

A-suing for her hand ;
A richer nobleman than he

Is not in all the land.

LORD MORTIMER.

Upon his lordly knees he sank,
On bended knee he fell ;
"And wilt thou not, fair Mary Jane,
Within my castle dwell ?

'77-1

THE BALLAD OF MARY JANE.

205

" GET HENCE ! AVAUNT ! I SCORN THV GOLD.

" Thou walkest now with weary feet,
But thou shalt ride in state ;
And dine and sup, like any queen,
Off my ancestral plate."

Right scornfully that angry maid

Her dainty nose upturned !
She waved her lily hand, and thus

His tempting offer spurned :

" Get hence ! avaunt ! I scorn thy gold,
Likewise thy pedigree !
I plighted troth to Benjamin,
Who sails the briny sea."

[Exit Mortimer, enter father.

THE FATHER ENTERS.

" Nay, verily," her father said,
" Braid up thy golden hair ;
Prepare to die, if thou wilt not
For nuptials prepare ! "

[Flourishes pasteboard knife.

She braided up her golden hair
With jewels bright, eft soon ;

She clad her in her twice dyed gown,
And eke her thrice patched shoon.

" Oh, Benjamin ! Oh, Benjamin ! "
Was all that she could say;
She wist not but that he was dead,
Or thousand leagues away.

IV.
Alack for Mary Jane ! the knife

Hangs glittering o'er her head !
Before the altar, Mortimer

Waits his fair bride to wed.

" Who knocks upon the outer gate?

Oh, father, quickly hie ! "
" 'T is but the grimy charcoal man;

We have no time to buy ! "

"HER SHRIEKS NO MERCY WIN.

" Methinks I hear the area-bell;

Oh, father, quickly speed ! "
" 'T is but a pesky book-agent ;

Thou hast no time to read ! "

The fatal knife descends, descends !

Her shrieks no mercy win !
When lo, a shout ! — the door gives way !

In rushes Benjamin !

I NOW RETURN, A TRILLIONAIRE.

Full many a year, a pirate bold,
I 've sailed the Spanish main ;

I now return, a trillionaire.
To claim thee, Mary Jane ! "

206

MABEL AND I.

[Januarv

Out spake her happy sire then :
" Can I my eyes believe ?
Upon your knees, my children dear,
My blessing to receive ! "

Alas for luckless Mortimer,
Of love the hopeless dupe !

He gave up all his title deeds,
And joined a circus troupe.

But merrily the bells did ring,
Loud was the cannon's din,

Upon the day when Mary Jane
Was wed to Benjamin !

[A low step-ladder, or table covered with a cloth,
may be used for the wall. Mary Jane's bon-
net can be made of a newspaper. Her father
may wear a water-proof cloak, belted in, if a
dressing-gown is not obtainable.

MABEL AND

(A Fairy Tale.)

By Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen.

" I WANT to see things as they are," said I to
Mabel.

" I don't see how else you can see them," an-
swered Mabel, with a laugh. "You certainly don't
see them as they are not."

"Yes, I do," said I. "I see men and things
only as they seem. It is so exasperating to think
that I can never get beyond the surface of any-
thing. My friends may appear very good and
beautiful to me, and yet I may all the while have a
suspicion that the appearance is deceitful, that they
are really neither good nor beautiful."

" In case that was so, I should n't want to know
it," said Mabel. "It would make me very un-
happy."

" That is where you and I differ," said I.

Mabel was silent for a moment, and I believe she
was a little hurt, for I had spoken rather sharply.

" But what good would it do you, Jamie ?" asked
she, looking up at me from under her wide-
brimmed straw hat.

" What would dome good?" said I, for I had
quite forgotten what we had been talking about.

" To see things as they are. There is my father
now ; he knows a great deal, and I am sure I
should n't care to know any more than he does."

"Well, that is where you and I differ," said I
again.

"I wish you wouldn't be always saying 'that is
where you and I differ.' Somehow I don't like to
hear you say it. It does n't sound like yourself."

And Mabel turned away from me, took up a leaf
from the ground and began to pick it to pieces.

We were sitting, at the time when this conversa-
tion took place, up in the gorge not half a mile

from the house where Mabel's father lived. I wa
a tutor in the college, about twenty-three years old
and I was very fond of German philosophy. An<
now, since I have told who I was, I suppose I ough
to tell you something about Mabel. Mabel was,—
but really it is impossible to say what she was
except that she was very, very charming. As fo
the rest, she was the daughter of Professor Mark
ham, and I had known her since my college day
when she was quite a little girl. And now she won
long dresses ; and, what was more, she had her hai
done up in a sort of Egyptian pyramid on the to]
of her head. The dress she had on to-day I waj
particularly fond of; it was of a fine light texture
and the pattern was an endless repetition of a smal
sweet-brier bud, with two delicate green leavei
attached to it.

I had spread a shawl out on the ground when
Mabel was sitting, for fear she should soil her fini
dress. A large weeping-willow spread its branche:
all around us, and drooped until it almost touchei
the ground, so that it made a sort of green, sun-li
summer-house for Mabel and me to live in. Be
tween the rocks at our feet a clear brook cam<
rushing down, throwing before it little showers o
spray, which fell like crystal pearls on the water
sailed down the swift eddies and then vanished
the next whirlpool. A couple of orioles in brand
new yellow uniforms, with black epaulets on thei
shoulders, were busy in the tree over our heads
but stopped now and then in their work to refresl
themselves with a little impromptu duet.

" Work and play
Make glad the day," —

that seemed to be their philosophy, and Mabel an<|

»?.]

MABEL AND I.

207

yere quite ready to agree with them,. although
had been idling since the early dawn. But then
ivas so long since we had seen each other, that
thought we could afford it.

" Somehow," said Mabel at last (for she never
jld pout long at a time), " I don't like you so
11 since you came back from Germany. You
: not as nice as you used to be. What did you
there for, anyway?"

"Why," I responded, quite seriously, " I went
:re to study ; and I did learn a good deal there,
hough naturally I was not as industrious as I
ght have been."

"I can readily believe that. But, tell me, what
1 you learn that you might n't just as well have
rned at home ? "

[ thought it was no use in being serious any
iger; so I tossed a pebble into the water, glanced
into Mabel's face and answered gayly :
"Well, I learned something about gnomes, and
rmies, and elves, and fairies, and salamanders,

d "

"And what?" interrupted Mabel, impatiently.

" And salamanders," repeated I. " You know

;: forests, and rivers, and mountains of Germany

! full of all sorts of strange sprites, and you know

; :'.' people believe in them, and that is one of the

■I'.ngs which make life in the Old World so fasci-

jrting. But here we are too prosy, and practical,

td business-like, and we don't-believe in anything

:ept what we can touch with our hands, and see

:;h our eyes, and sell for money."

Now, Jamie, that is not true," responded Ma-
il, energetically; for she was a strong American
1 heart, and it did n't take much to rouse her.
1 believe, for instance, that you know a great
al, although not as much as my father ; but I
tl't see your learning with my eyes, neither can I

:ich it with my hands "

i"But I hope I can sell it for money," interrupted
r. laughing.

ji"No, joking aside. I don't think we are quite
bad as you would like to make us out."
"And then you think, perhaps, that the gnomes
a d river-sprites would be as apt to thrive here as
iithe Old World ? "

."Who knows?" said Mabel, with an expression
it seemed to me half serious, half grave. " But
wish you would tell me something about your
firman sprites. I am so very ignorant in such
jngs, you know."

1 [ stretched myself comfortably on the edge of the
twl at Mabel's feet, and began to tell her the
>ry about the German peasant who caught the
ome that had robbed his wheat-field.
"The gnomes wear tiny red caps," I went on,
vhich make them invisible. They are called tarn-

caps, or caps of darkness. The peasant that I am
telling about had a suspicion that it was the gnomes
who had been stealing his wheat. One evening,
he went out after sunset (for the gnomes never
venture out from their holes until the sun is down)
and began to fight in the air with his cane about
the borders of the field. Then suddenly he saw a
very tiny man with knee-breeches and large fright-
ened eyes, turning a somersault in the grass right
at his feet. He had struck off his cap, and then, of
course, the gnome was no longer invisible. The
peasant immediately seized the cap and put it into
his pocket ; the gnome begged and implored to
get it back, but instead of that, the peasant caught
him up in his arms and carried him to his house,
where he kept him as a captive until the other
gnomes sent a herald to him and offered him a
large ransom. Then the gnome was again set free
and the peasant made his fortune by the transac-
tion."

" Would n't it be delightful if such things could
ever happen here ? " ex-claimed Mabel, while her
beautiful eyes shone with pleasure at the very
thought.

"I should think so," said I. "It is said, too,
that if there are gnomes and elves in the neighbor-
hood, they always gather around you when you
talk about them."

"Really?" And Mabel sent a timid glance in
among the large mossy trunks of the beeches and
pines.

"Tell me something more, Jamie," she de-
manded, eagerly.

Mabel had such a charming way of saying
"Jamie," that I could never have opposed a wish
of hers, whatever it might be. The professor called
me James, and among my friends I was Jim ; but
it was only Mabel wdio called me Jamie. So I told
her all I knew about the nixies, who sang their
strange songs at midnight in the water ; about the
elves, who lived in the roses and lilies, and danced
in a ring around the tall flowers until the grass
never grew there again ; and about the elf-maiden
who led the knight astray when he was riding to
his bride on his wedding-day. And all the while
Mabel's eyes seemed to be growing larger; the
blood burned in her cheeks, and sometimes she
shuddered, although the afternoon was very warm.
When I had finished my tale, I rose and seated
myself at her side. The silence suddenly seemed
quite oppressive ; it was almost as if we could hear
it. For some reason neither Mabel nor I dared to
speak ; but we both strained our ears listening to
something, we did not know what. Then there
came a strange soft whisper which filled the air all
about us, and I thought I heard somebody calling
my name.

208

MABEL AND I.

[Janimb

" They are calling you, Jamie," whispered Mabel.

"Calling me? Who?" said I.

" Up there in the tree. No, not there. It is
down in the brook. Everywhere."

"Oh," cried I, with a forced laugh. "We are
two great children, Mabel. It is nothing."

Suddenly all was silent once more ; but the
wood-stars and violets at my feet gazed at me with

" But you know we were talking about them
whispered she, still with the same fascinated ga;
in her eyes. "Ah, there, take care! Don't ste
on that violet. Don't you see how its mute ey<
implore you to spare its life ? "

" Yes, dear, I see," answered I ; and I drd
Mabel's arm through mine, and we hurried dow
the wood-path, not daring to look back, for we h3

MABEL IN HER SWEET-DRIER DRESS.

such strange, wistful eyes, that I was almost fright-
ened.

" You should n't have done that, Jamie," said
Mabel, " You killed them."

" Killed what ? "

" The voices, the strange, small voices."

" My dear girl," said I, as I took Mabel's hands
and helped her to rise. " I am afraid we are both
losing our senses. Come, let us go. The sun is
already down. It must be after tea-time."

both a feeling as if some one was walking cloi
behind us, in our steps.

II.

It was a little after ten, I think, when I left tt
professor's house, where I had been spending tt
evening, and started on my homeward way.

As I walked along the road the thought of Mab
haunted me. I wondered whether I ever shoul
be a professor, like her father, and ended with coi

r'7-J

MABEL AND I.

209

t jding that the next best thing to being one's self
^professor would be to be a professor's son-in-law.
,]it somehow I wasn't at all sure that Mabel cared
,i,ything about me.

"Things are not what they seem," I mur-
i.ured to myself, "and the real Mabel may be a
y.ry different creature from the Mabel whom I

LOW."

There was not much comfort in that thought,
it nevertheless I could not get rid of it. I glanced
1 to the big round face of the moon, which had a
:'ge ring of mist about its neck; and looking more
>sely I thought I saw a huge floundering body, of
lich the moon was the head, crawling heavily
ross the sky and stretching a long misty arm
:er me. I hurried on, not caring to look right
left; and I suppose I must have taken the wrong
rn, for as I lifted my eyes, I found myself stand-
g under the willow-tree at the creek where Mabel
d I had been sitting in the afternoon. The
:usts, with their shrill metallic voices, kept whir-
ig away in the grass, and I heard their strange
ising sh-h-h-h-h, now growing stronger, then
akening again, and at last stopping abruptly,
if to say : " Did n't I do well ? " But the blue-
lad violets shook their heads, and that means in
:ir language: "No, I don't think so at all."
le water, which descended in three successive
Is into the wide dome-shaped gorge, seemed to
:, as I stood gazing at it, to be going the wrong
y, crawling, with eager, foamy hands, up the
[ges of the rock to where I was standing.
f I must certainly be mad," thought I, " or I am
Iting to be a poet."

In order to rid myself of the painful illusion,
ich was every moment getting more vivid, I
ned my eyes away and hurried up along the
iks, while the beseeching murmur of the waters
ig in my ears.

As I had ascended the clumsy wooden stairs
ich lead up to the second fall, I suddenly saw
5 little blue lights hovering over the ground
ectly in front of me.

'Will-o'-the-wisps," said I to myself. "The
mnd is probably swampy."

i pounded with my cane on the ground, but, as
might have known, it was solid rock. It was
jitainly very strange. I flung myself down behind
■ trunk of a large hemlock. The two blue lights
ne hovering directly toward me. I lifted my
ie, — with a swift blow it cut the air, and, — who
1 imagine my astonishment ? Right in front of

I saw a tiny man, not much bigger than a good-
:d kitten, and at his side lay a small red cap ;

cap, of course, I immediately snatched up and
, : it in a separate apartment in my pocket-book
. make sure that I should not lose it. One of the

lights hastened away to the rocks and vanished
before I could overtake it.

There was something so very funny in the idea
of finding a gnome in the State of New York, that
the strange fear which had possessed me departed,
and I felt very much inclined to laugh. My blow
had quite stunned the poor little ereature ; he was
still lying half on his back, as if trying to raise him-
self on his elbows, and his large black eyes had a
terrified stare in them, and seemed to be ready to
spring out of their sockets.

"Give — give me back my cap," he gasped at
last, in a strange metallic voice, which sounded to
me like the clinking of silver coins.

"Not so fast, my dear," said I. "What will
you give me for it ? "

" Anything," he cried, as he arose and held out
his small hand.

"Then listen to me," continued I. "Can you
help me to see things as they are ? In that case I
shall give you back your cap, but on no other con-
dition."

" See things as they are ? " repeated the gnome,
vvonderingly.

"Yes, and not only as they seem," rejoined I,
with emphasis.

"Return here at midnight," began he, after a
long silence. " Upon the stone where you are sit-
ting you shall find what you want. If you take it,
leave my cap on the same spot."

"That is a fair bargain," said I. "I shall be
here promptly at twelve. Good-night."

I had extended my palm to shake hands with my
new friend, but he seemed to resent my politeness;
with a sort of snarl, he turned a somersault and
rolled down the hill-side to where the rocks rise
from the water.

I need not say that I kept my promise about
returning. And what did I find? A pair of spec-
tacles of the most exquisite workmanship ; the
glasses so clear as almost to deceive the sight, and
the setting of gold spun into fine elastic threads.

" We shall soon see what they are good for,"
thought I, as I put them into the silver case, the
wonderful finish of which I could hardly distinguish
by the misty light of the moon.

The little tarn-cap I of course left on the stone.
As I wandered homeward through the woods, I
thought, with a certain fierce triumph, that now
the beauty of Mabel's face should no more deceive
me.

" Now, Mabel," I murmured, " now I shall see
you as you are."

III.
At three o'clock in the afternoon, I knocked at
the door of the professor's study.

2IO

MABEL AND I.

[Januar

"Come in," said the professor.

" Is — is Mabel at home ? " asked I, when I had
shaken hands with the professor and seated myself
in one of his hard, straight-backed chairs.

" She will be down presently," answered he.
" There is a newspaper. You may amuse yourself
with that until she comes."

I took up the paper ; but the spectacles seemed
to be burning in my breast-pocket, and although I
stared intently on the print, I could hardly dis-
tinguish a word. What if I tried the power of the
spectacles on the professor ? The idea appeared to
me a happy one, and I immediately proceeded to
put it into practice. With a loudly beating heart,
I pulled the silver case from my pocket, rubbed
the glasses with my handkerchief, put them on my
nose, adjusted the bows behind my ears, and cast
■a stealthy glance at the professor over the edge of
my paper. But what was my horror ! It was no
longer the professor at all. It was a huge parrot,
a veritable parrot in slippers and dressing-gown !
I dared hardly believe my senses. Was the pro-
fessor really not a man, but a parrot ? My dear
trusted and honored teacher, whom I had always
looked upon as the wisest and most learned of living
men, could it be possible that he was a parrot ?
And still there he sat, grave and sedate, a pair of
horn spectacles on his large, crooked beak, a few
stiff feathers bristling around his bald crown, and
his small eyes blinking with a sort of meaningless
air of confidence, as I often had seen a parrot's eyes
doing.

" My gnome has been playing a trick on me," I
thought. "This is certainly not to see things as
they are. If I only had his tarn-cap once more,
he should not recover it so cheaply."

" Well, my boy," began the professor, as he
wheeled round in his chair, and knocked the ashes
out of his pipe on the polished andirons which
adorned the empty fire-place. " How is the world
using you ? Getting over your German whims,
eh?"

Surely the spectacles must in some mysterious
way have affected my ears too. The professor's
voice certainly did sound very curious — very much
like the croak of some bird that had learned human
language, but had no notion of what he was saying.
The case was really getting serious. I threw the
paper away, stared my teacher full in the face, but
was so covered with confusion that I could hardly
utter two coherent words.

" Yes, yes, — certainly, — professor," I stammered.
" German whims ? — I mean things as they are —
and — and not as they seem — das Ding an sich —
beg your pardon — I am not sure, I — I compre-
hended your meaning — beg your pardon ? "

" My dear boy," croaked the professor, opening

his beak in great bewilderment, and showing
little thick red tongue, which curved upward lili
that of a parrot, " you are certainly not wel
Mabel ! Mabel ! Come down ! James is ill ! Ye:
you certainly look wretchedly. Let me feel yoi
pulse."

I suppose my face must have been very muc
flushed, for the blood had mounted to my hea
and throbbed feverishly in my temples. As I hear
the patter of Mabel's feet in the hall, a great drea
came over me. What if she too should turn o\
to be somebody else — a strange bird or beast
No, not for all the world would I see Mabel — tb
dear, blessed Mabel — any differently from wh;
she had always seemed to me. So I tore the spe<
tacles from my nose and crammed them into tb
case, which again I thrust into my pocket. In tb
same instant, Mabel's sweet face appeared in tb
door.

"Did you call me, papa?" she said; then, i
she saw me reclining on the sofa, where her fathe
(now no longer a parrot) had forced me to 1
down, there came a sudden fright into her beautifi
eyes, and she sprang to my side and seized rr.
hand in hers.

"Are you ill, Jamie?" she asked, in a vok
of unfeigned anxiety, which went straight to n
heart. " Has anything happened to you ? "

" Hush, hush ! " said the professor. " Dor
make him speak. It might have proved a serioi
attack. Too much studying, my dear — too muc
studying. To be sure, the ambition of young m«
nowadays is past belief. It was different in rr
youth. Then, every young man was satisfied if 1
could only make a living — found a home for hin
self and bring up his family in the fear of Goi
But now, dear me, such things are mere nursei
ambitions."

I felt wretched and guilty in my heart ! To 1
thus imposing upon two good people, who lovc-
me and were willing to make every sacrifice for it
comfort ! Mabel had brought a pillow and put
under my head; and now she took out some so
of crochet-work, and seated herself on a chair clo:
by me. The professor stood looking at his watt
and counting my pulse-beats.

"One hundred and fifteen," he muttered, an
shook his bald head. " Yes, he has fever. I sa
it at once, as he entered the room."

"Professor," I cried out, in an agony of n
morse, " really I meant nothing by it. I kno
very well that you are not a parrot — that yo
are "

" I — I — a parrot ! " he exclaimed, smiling knov
ingly at Mabel. "No, I should think not. He
raving, my dear. High fever. Just what I saic
Wont you go out and send Maggie for the doctor

'-.J

MABEL AND I.

21 I

stop, I shall go myself. Then he will be sure
:ome without delay. It is high time."
The professor buttoned his coat up to his chin,
-d his hat at the proper angle on the back of his

' id, and departed in haste.
'How do you feel now, Jamie dear?" said

'.bel, after awhile.

5 ;' I am very well, I thank you, Mabel," answered

here and playing sick," muttered I, "then, of
course, I will do anything to please you."

" That is right," said she, and gave me a friendly
nod.

So I lay still for a long while, until I came once
more to think of my wonderful spectacles, which
had turned the venerable professor into a parrot..
I thought I owed Mabel an apology for what I had

' " In fact, it is all nonsense. I am not sick

ill."

'" Hush, hush ! you must not talk so much,"
laanded she, and put her hand on my mouth,
.uty excitement. was now gradually subsiding, and

blood was returning to its usual speed,
i' If you don't object, Mabel," said I, "I'll get

and go home. There 's nothing whatever the

tter with me."
"Will you be a good boy and keep quiet," re-

ied she, emphasizing each word by a gentle tap

my head with her crochet-needle.
''Well, if it can amuse you to have me lying

'GIVE ME BACK MY CAP! CRI!U THE GNOME.

done to her father, and I determined to ease my
mind by confiding the whole story to her.

" Mabel," I began, raising myself on my elbow.
"I want to tell you something, but you must
promise me beforehand that you will not be angry
with me."

"Angry with you, Jamie?" repeated she, open-
ing her bright eyes wide in astonishment. " I
never was angry with you in my life."

" Very well, then. But I have done something
very bad, and I shall never have peace until I have
confided it all to you. You are so very good,
Mabel. I wish I could be as good as you are."

212

MABEL A N.D I .

[Janua:

Mabel was about to interrupt me, but I pre-
vented her, and continued :

" Last night, as I was going home from your
house, the moonlight was so strangely airy and
beautiful, and without quite intending to do it, I
found myself taking a walk through the gorge.
There I saw some curious little lights dancing over
the ground, and I remembered the story of the
peasant who had caught the gnome. And do you
know what I did ? "

Mabel was beginning to look apprehensive.

" No, I can't imagine what you did," she whis-
pered.

"Well, I lifted my cane, struck at one of the
lights, and, before I knew it, there lay a live gnome
on the ground, kicking with his small legs "

"Jamie! Jamie!" cried Mabel, springing up
and gazing at me, as if she thought I had gone
mad.

Then there was an unwelcome shuffling of feet
in the hall, the door was opened, and the professor
entered with the doctor.

"Papa, papa!" exclaimed Mabel, turning to
her father. " Do you know what Jamie says ? He
says he saw a gnome last night in the gorge, and
that "

" Yes, I did !" cried I, excitedly, and sprang up
to seize my hat. " If nobody will believe me, I
need n't stay here any longer. And if you doubt
what I have been saying, I can show you "

"My dear sir," said the doctor.

" My dear boy," chimed in the professor, and
seized me round the waist to prevent me from
escaping.

" My dear Jamie," implored Mabel, while the
tears started to her eyes, " do keep quiet, do ! "

The doctor and the professor now forced me
back upon the sofa, and I had once more to resign
myself to my fate.

" A most singular hallucination," said the pro-
fessor, turning his round, good-natured face to the
doctor. "A moment ago he observed that I was
not a parrot, which necessarily must have been
suggested by a previous hallucination that I was a
parrot."

The doctor shook his head and looked grave.

" Possibly a very serious case," said he, " a case

of ," and he gave it a long Latin name, which

I failed to catch. "It is well that I was called in
time. We may still succeed in mastering the
disease."

"Too much study?" suggested the professor.
" Restless ambition ? Night labor — severe appli-
cation ? "

The doctor nodded and tried to look wise. Mabel
burst into tears, and I myself, seeing her distress,
could hardly refrain from weeping. And still I

could not help thinking that it was very sweet
see Mabel's tears flowing for my sake.

The doctor now sat down and wrote a number
curiously abbreviated Latin words for a prescri
tion, and handed it to the professor, who folded
up and put it into his pocket-book.

Half an hour later, I lay in a soft bed with sno\V
white curtains, in a cozy little room upstairs. T
shades had been pulled down before the window
a number of medicine bottles stood on a chair
my bedside, and I began to feel quite like an i
valid — and all because I had said (what noboi
could deny) that the professor was not a parrot

IV.

I SOON learned that the easiest way to recov
my liberty was to offer no resistance, and to
nothing more about the gnome and the spectacle
Mabel came and sat by my bedside for a f
hours every afternoon, and her father visited i
regularly three times a day, felt my pulse and ga
me a short lecture on moderation in study, on t
evil effects of ambition, and on the dangerous ter
encies of modern speculation.

The gnome's spectacles I kept hidden under i
pillow, and many a time when Mabel was with ]
I felt a strong temptation to try their effect up
her. Was Mabel really as good and beautiful
she seemed to me ? Often I had my hand on t
dangerous glasses, but always the same dread cai
over me, and my courage failed me. That swe
fair, beautiful face, — what could it be, if it was i
what it seemed? No, no, I loved Mabel too w
as she seemed, to wish to know whether she waj
delusion or a reality. What good would it do 1
if I found out that she too was a parrot, or a goo
or any other kind of bird or beast ? The fair
hope would go out of my life, and I should h
little or nothing left worth living for. I must c(
fess that my curiosity often tormented me beyo
endurance, but, as I said, I could never mus
courage enough either to conquer it or to yield
it. Thus, when at the end of a week I was allow
to sit up, I knew no more about Mabel's real ch
acter than I had known before. I saw that s
was patient, kind-hearted, sweet-tempered, — tl
her comings and goings were as quiet and pleas;
as those of the sunlight which now stole in unh
dered and again vanished through the uncurtain
windows. And, after all, had I not known tl
always? One thing, however, I now knew bet
than before, and that was that I never could lc
anybody as I loved Mabel, and that I hoped sol
time to make her my wife.

A couple of days elapsed, and then I was p
mitted to return to my own lonely rooms. A
very dreary and desolate did they seem to me af

M-ABEL AND I.

2 I

pleasant days I had spent, playing sick, with
bel and the professor. I did try once or twice
effect of my spectacles on some of my friends,
i| always the result was astonishing. Once I put
m on in church, and the minister, who had the
utation of being a very pious man, suddenly
>d before me as a huge fox in gown and bands.
• voice sounded like a sort of bark, and his long-
,ut opened and shut again in such a funny fash-
that I came near laughing aloud. But, fortu-
;ly, I checked myself and looked for a moment
couple of old maids in the pew opposite. And,
I ither you will believe me or not, they looked
:tly like two dressed-up magpies, while the
t old gentleman next to them had the appear-
; of a sedate and pious turkey-cock. As he
. out his handkerchief and blew his nose — I
n his bill — the laughter again came over me,
I had to stoop down in the pew and smother
merriment. An old chum of mine, who was a
jus sportsman and a great favorite with the
s, turned out to be a bull-dog, and as he ad-
;d his neck-tie and pulled up his collar around
hick, hairy neck, I had once more to hide my
in order to preserve my gravity,
am afraid, if I had gone on with my observa-
ji, I should have lost my faith in many a man
1 woman whom I had previously trusted and
dred, for they were probably not all as good
.amiable as they appeared. However, I could
help asking myself, as Mabel had done, what
.1 such a knowledge would, in the end, do me.
it not better to believe everybody good, until
^inced to the contrary, than to distrust every-
■ and by your suspicion do injustice to those
.were really better than they seemed? After
I thought, these spectacles are making me
oid and suspicious; they are a dangerous and
ss thing to possess. I will return them to their
—owner.

lis, then, was my determination. A little before
jit, I started for the gorge, and on my way I
j a little girl playing with pebbles at the road-
My curiosity once more possessed me. I
in the gnome's spectacles and gazed intently
e chiid. Strange to say no transformation
red. I took off the glasses, rubbed them
my handkerchief, and put them on once more,
rhild still remained what it seemed — a child ;
feature was changed. Here, then, was really
^iiture that was neither more nor less than it
i;d. For some inconceivable reason the tears
: d to my eyes; I took the little girl up in my
and kissed her. My thoughts then naturally
d to Mabel ; I knew in the depth of my heart
she, too, would have remained unchanged.
could she be that was better than her own

sweet self — the pure, the beautiful, the blessed
Mabel ?

When the sun was well set, I sat down under the
same hemlock-tree where I had first met the gnome.
After half an hour's waiting I again saw the lights
advancing over the ground, struck at random at
one of them and the small man was once more visi-
ble. I did not seize his cap, however, but addressed
him in this manner :

"Do you know, you curious Old World sprite,
what scrapes your detestable spectacles brought
me into ? Here they are. Take them back. I
don't want to see them again as long as I live."

In the next moment I saw the precious glasses
in the gnome's hand, a broad, malicious grin
distorted his features, and before I could say an-
other word, he had snatched up his cap and van-
ished.

A few days later, Mabel, with her sweet-brier
dress on, was again walking at my side along the
stream in the gorge, and somehow our footsteps
led us to the old willow-tree where we had had our
talk about the German gnomes and fairies.

" Suppose, Jamie," said Mabel, as we seated
ourselves on the grass, "that a good fairy should
come to you and tell you that your highest wish
should be fulfilled. What would you then ask ? "

"I would ask," cried I, seizing Mabel's hand,
"that she would give me a good little wife, with
blue eyes and golden hair, whose name should be
Mabel. "

Mabel blushed crimson and turned her face away
from me to hide her confusion.

" You would not wish to see things as they are,
then," whispered she, while the sweetest smile stole
over her blushing face.

" Oh, no, no ! " exclaimed I. " But what would
you ask, Mabel ? "

" I," answered she, " would ask the fairy to give
me a husband who loved me well, if — if his name
was — Jamie."

A little before supper-time we both stole on tip-
toe into the professor's study. He was writing, as
usual, and did not notice us. Mabel went up to
his chair from behind and gently put her hands
over his eyes, and asked if he could guess who it
was. He, of course, guessed all the names he
could think of except the right one.

" Papa," said Mabel, at last, restoring to him
once more the use of his eyes, "Jamie and I have
something we want to tell you."

" And what is it, my dear?" asked the professor,
turning round on his chair, and staring at us as if
he expected something extraordinary.

" I don't want to say it aloud." said Mabel. " I
want to whisper it "

"And I, too," echoed I.

214

THE OLD-TIME MINSTRELS.

[Januarv

And so we both put our mouths, one on each
side, to the professor's ears and whispered.

"But," exclaimed the old man, as soon as he
could recover his breath, " you must bear in mind
that life is not a play, — that — that life is not what
it seems "

" No, but Mabel is," said I.

" Is, — is what ? "

"What she seems," cried I.

And then we both laughed ; and the professo
kissed Mabel, shook my hand, and at last a]
laughed.

ANOTHER DAYLIGHT BL'RGLARV.

THE OLD-TIME MINSTRELS.

By E. B. M.

The English harpers, or minstrels, were the
successors of England's first musicians, the Druid
bards. Not only in England, but throughout all
Europe, and especially in Denmark, the sacred
scalds (or bards) first, and afterward the harpers,
were persons of the greatest consequence. They
were constantly sought to attend at the palaces of
kings, where, to the accompaniment of their rude
harps, they recounted for royal ears the praises of
kingly ancestors, or sang the stirring national an-
thems, which should inspire to deeds of future
greatness. In return, they were loaded with the

richest honors and rewards, their vocation was co'i
sidered divine, and in times of war they were ui
molested, though traveling freely to and frobetwec
the encampments of hostile armies.

Alfred the Great (and he was not the only 01
who tried the experiment) found, as you know,
the disguise of a harper, admittance to the cart
of his enemies, the Danes, and obtained there tl
necessary knowledge to regain the lost throne.

On the opposite page is a picture of one of tl
primitive harpers, giving some idea of the shape
the instrument used by the musician of the timf

7-1

THE OLD-TIME MINSTRELS.

215

As early as the tenth century we read of minstrels
the continent of Europe, who traveled in bands
companies, glad to offer their united powers of
nusement to any who would give them audience,
le Anglo-Saxon minstrels, who come into promi-
nt notice soon after, were called in the early ages
minstrelsy by two names — "scop," meaning a
iker, and "gligman" or " gleeman," which in-
ides all professional performers for public enter-
nment. For, to the serious vein of their ances-
s, these wandering musicians had added a comic
e of their own, and with the singing of ancient
roic poems they rendered also the ballads and
nances of the day, accompanied by exhibi-
ts of their skill as dancers, joculators or jesters,
d jugglers. These obtained admission every-
ere.

When we remember how few were the occupa-
ns of our Anglo-Saxon forefathers, we can inl-
ine with what satisfaction a cheerful party of
'sons, possessing such numerous powers of diver-
n, would be received at the castle gate or the
y-sidc inn. They frequented mostly the homes
the great, however ; and though the ancient
•per, singing only the religious or patriotic songs
his race, was held in very different esteem from
t modern gleemen, who cared more for supper
;n song, yet their society was as eagerly sought
i rewarded. In addition to their merry-making
ractions, the minstrels served also the purpose
a newspaper, carrying items of news from one
tion of country to another, along with the last
v tale, all of which they offered their patrons for
onsideration.
jThey figured prominently also in political in-
jues, so that, during the middle ages, the dis-
ise of a minstrel was frequently assumed to enable
pected or obnoxious parties to pass through diffi-
ties safely and unchallenged. Some of the class
re more respectable than others, however, and
'oted themselves solely to the exercise of their
ifession.

The news of an approaching festival was sure to
rig to the castle gates a large gathering of the
istrels. Numbers were no bar to admission, and,
I 'ing successive days of feasting and pleasure,
'se adroit performers would suit their entertain-
pnt to the mood of their hearers. Were the com-
] ly in a quiet humor, they sang the old ballad;
I chivalry. If gay, as they lingered over the
! ving bowl, they chanted satirical poems or love-
1 lances, or exhibited their mountebank shows
| I powers of jugglery; and at last, presented

I ir appeals for compensation, sometimes in ways

I I were neither dignified nor delicate.

■ n one case, we are told, a minstrel interrupts
story, probably at the most telling point, to

inform his hearers, that "whoever wishes to hear
any more of this poem must make haste to open
his purse, for it is now high time that he give me
something." Another makes a still more peremp-
tory demand. "Take notice," he says, " as God
may give me health, I will immediately put a stop
to my song, and 1 at once excommunicate all those
who shall not visit their purses in order to give me
something to my wife." The poor fellow had some
excuse, however, as his poem had already reached
over five thousand lines without bringing any re-
sponse from his audience.

But money was not the only reward sought or
won by these wandering musicians. The village
fairs, no less than baronial halls, were enlivened by
their presence. The first Earl of Chester decreed
that all minstrels who should come to Chester fair
were secure from arrest for theft or any other mis-
demeanor, except the crime were committed during
the fair. Years afterward, the privileges proved of
great advantage to one of the noble lord's succes-
sors, for, besieged by the Welsh in his castle of
Rothelan, the constable of Chester gathered the
minstrels, and, " by the allurement of their music,
got together a great crowd of such loose people as
by reason of privilege were then in that city, whom
he sent forthwith to the earl's relief. The Welsh,
alarmed at the approach of this rabble, suppos-
ing them to be a regular body of armed and dis-
ciplined veterans, instantly raised the siege and
retired."

Many of the minstrels were retained in the con-
stant service of kings and nobles, receiving salaries,
and even houses and lands, from their royal patrons.

A PRIMITIVE HARPER.

They were not only required to perform at public
festivals, as we have seen, but during disagreeable
operations, which kings as well as common people
are sometimes obliged to endure. History tells us
that Edward I., who was the special patron of the
profession, was at one time very ill and obliged to-
be bled. In order to soothe his majesty while
undergoing the operation, his surgeon, Sir John

2l6

THE OLD-TIME MINSTRELS.

[Januar'

Maltravers, summoned his chief minstrel, who exe-
cuted some of his choicest diversions on the painful
occasion.

Among the instruments used by the minstrels,
the harp, or, as it was called in the old Saxon, the
"glee-beam" (or glee-wood), stood first in their
regard. In addition, the trumpet, the pipe (or
flute), the viol (or fiddle), the horn, the drum (or
tabor), the cymbals, hand-bells, and a portable
organ, known as the dulcimer, were all used in the
middle ages. The troubadours of Europe, how-
ever, were devoted exclusively to the viol.

On this page is a picture of a minstrel of the
fourteenth century, playing upon a tabor, an in-

ANGLO-5AXON MINSTRELS AND JUGGLERS.

strument much in favor with the lower orders of
society.

The dulcimer, or organ, was much in use, if we
may judge from its frequent introduction into pict-
ures.

The bagpipe was an instrument mostly used by
shepherds and rustic musicians, who, in common
with other classes of society during the fourteenth
and fifteenth centuries, were given to the cultiva-
tion of music. In addition to the bagpipe, they
played upon the pipe and horn ; and so late as the
reign of Queen Mary, in 1553, they officiated at

THE TABOR.

village weddings and merry-makings, and " eve
sometimes excited the jealousy of the professors
the joyous science."

In the effort to raise minstrelsy to a more respeel
able position, the minstrels of a better class forme
themselves into societies or guilds, governed b
laws of their own, and open only
to the admission of those who by
special qualification were fitted
to join the company. The most
noted of these guilds was the
ancient fraternity of the minstrels
of Beverley, in Yorkshire. Their
officers were an alderman and
two stewards, and a copy of their
regulations is still preserved.

One of these requires, "That they should
take any new brother except he be minstrel to son
man of honor or worship, or wait of some tow
corporate, or other ancient town, or else of sue
knowledge or honesty as shall be thought laudab
and pleasant to the hearers there."

Another of their by-laws declares, "That i
mylner, shepherd, or of other occupation, or hu
bandman or husbandman's servant, playing up<
pipe or other instrument, shall follow any weddii
or other thing that pertaineth to the said scienc
except in his own parish."

In the time of Henry VI., at the building of f
church of St. Mary's in Beverley, these minstn
gave one of its pillars, with
the design, as shown on the
opposite page, sculptured
upon it.

But despite the endeavors
of such fraternities as these,
minstrelsy, degraded by the
immoral lives of many of its
professors, was, like the state
of society in which it flour-
ished, becoming an institu-
tion of the past. In the lat-
ter part of the fifteenth cen-
tury, minstrels were styled
as "ribalds," "heretics,"
and were considered a " dis-
graceful " sort of people ;
while a little later, they
were proscribed by an Act
of Parliament as "vaga-
bonds and rogues." Yet
even at the beginning of
the last century there were many people of rd
who retained minstrels in their retinue, emplo;i
in duties connected with their old profession.

In Sir Walter Scott's "Lay of the Last Ml
strel," the date of the story being about the midtfn

THE Dt'LCIMER.

77-]

THE OLD-TIME MINSTRELS.

217

' the sixteenth century, we have a picture of the
rlorn condition of the once jovial gleeman :

" The way was long, the wind was cold,
The minstrel was infirm and old;
His withered cheek and tresses gray
Seemed to have known a better day.

A. BAND OF MINSTRELS WITH DULCIMER, BAGPIPE AND VIOL.

The harp, his sole remaining joy,

Was carried by an orphan boy.

The last of all the bards was he

Who sung of Border chivalry,—-

For well-a-day their date was fled,

His tuneful brethren all were dead;

And he, neglected and oppressed,

Wished to be with them and at rest.

No more on prancing palfrey borne,

He caroled, light as lark at morn ;

No longer, courted and caressed,

High placed in hall, a welcome guest,

He poured to lord and lady gay

The unpremeditated lay.

Old times were changed, old manners gone,

A stranger filled the Stuart's throne.

The bigots of the iron time

Had called his harmless art a crime.

A wandering harper, scorned and poor,

He begged his bread from door to door ;

And tuned to please a peasant's ear,

A harp a king had loved to hear."

The minstrel, seeing no humbler resting-place at
hand, paused sadly at a castle gate. But a kind
reception awaited him.

" The duchess marked his weary pace,
His timid mien, and reverend face,
And bade her page the menials tell
That they should tend the old man well."

So kindly was the aged minstrel cared for, and
so interested were the duchess and her ladies in his
lay, that after singing again and again the songs
of the olden time, we see him once more.

" Hushed is the harp, the minstrel gone —
And did he wander forth alone ?
Alone, in indigence and age,
To linger out his pilgrimage ?
No — close beneath proud Newark's tower,
Arose the minstrel's lowly bower,
A simple hut; but there was seen
The little garden hedged with green,
The cheerful hearth, and lattice clean.
There, sheltered wanderers, by the blaze,
Oft heard the tale of other days ;
For much he loved to ope his door,
And give the aid he begged before."

The troubadours, whom we have mentioned, be-
longed to the highest order of minstrels. They
were a school of poets who flourished in the south
of France and north of Italy, from the eleventh to
the latter end of the thirteenth century. They
were principally of noble birth, numbering kings
and warriors within their ranks, who cultivated the
arts of poetry and music ; their compositions, for
the most part, being love romances and ballads.
Some of them also wrote books on the art of versi-
fying and the principles of poetry. But, like the
minstrel, the troubadour in time disappeared.

FIGURES SCULPTURED ON' A CHURCH PILLAR.

Vol. IV.— 15.

218

MARIE S NEW YEARS DAY.

[JanuaB

MARIE'S NEW YEAR'S DAY.
By G. W. B.

Marie, a sweet-faced French girl, was our chil-
dren's nurse. Her father, an Austrian, had, when
a young man, left his native village and traveled to
a little town in France. Here he married, and his
wanderings ceased. Years rolled on, time wrought

Performing her slight household duties,
chanted gay little airs of her native land, in a sw
voice that made the canary wild with rivalry, wr
everywhere her presence was like sunshine.

Winter passed, — the sunny days of spring,-

WAS DELIGHTED WHEN THE GARDENER ALLOWED HER TO ASSIST HIM.

its changes, and at last his eldest daughter came
to this country. She had been but a few days in
New York when we engaged her, and she had
but few acquaintances, but her modest appear-
ance, her bright cheerful face, were sufficiently
good recommendations, and she was soon trans-
ferred to our home. Immediately she won a warm
place in the affections of the children, so that to
listen to French stories, or to chat in French with
Marie, was to them no task.

when the heats of summer came we left the
How happy was Marie in our country home !
squirrel and the robin were not more gay than :e,
and the honey-bee not more industrious. She BS
delighted when the gardener allowed her to a
him ; but, working or playing, she was alvBj
happy. Under the tall pines, and beneath &
beeches, her rippling laughter echoed, while It
chattering jay-birds ceased their scoldings to liai
to its music.

Ill 7.]

MARIES NEW YEARS DAV.

219

But there came a sad day for our poor Fran<;aise.
the performance of some duty, she went into the
jndry, her light dress came in contact with the
e — a shriek, a sudden bound, and she stood upon
e breezy lawn, enveloped in flames. With des-
ration she tore away the blazing fabric; help
3n came, but not to save her from dreadful injury,
sr face was not harmed, but her arms were shock-
gly burned.

Her first utterance was : ' ' Oh, Madame' B. /
adamc B. ! je ne pourrais plus jamais, jamais
ivaillcr ! "

Kind nursing and tender care were not wanting;
e best medical skill was employed ; but to save
r life it was decided that her right arm must be
cen off near the shoulder. Through all her dis-
ss and pain the poor girl bore herself with ferti-
le that awoke the admiration of all who saw her.
le amputation took place at the hospital, and it
s only during the Christmas week that she came
:k to us — pale and worn, her merry smiles all
anged into a look of anxiety.
During her absence it had been suggested that a
:le fund be got together for her benefit. Kind
arts who heard her sad story gave freely, and
fore New Year's Day there was a nice sum in hand
her benefit. The glad morning, and the usual
le presents of the happy day had been exchanged,
trie received many little souvenirs, had given the
ildren some simple tokens of her love and grati-
le, and was quite cheerful. About the house,
wever, there was an air of mystery.
fVfter the holiday dinner, many children of the
ighborhood, whom Marie knew, came dropping
all with some kind word for her, until twenty or
rty were assembled, and playing merry games,
trie, with her black dress, white apron, and
ite bonnet, with its single rose, moved around
ong them interesting herself in their play, until
:e more the color faintly showed itself in her
e cheeks.

Suddenly, there appears from an adjoining room,
elephant (improvised — two boys and a shawl)
iring with its trunk a white envelope, and this
phantsaid: " Marie Schalner ! oil est die?"
5oing to where she stood, the envelope was held
: to the astonished girl, and she saw the inscrip-
1 : " Pour Marie ! 300 francs. "

Five hundred francs ! Who can picture her
surprise, the clapping of hands, and the joy of the
children as they crowded around her while the ele-
phant disappeared in rather a disordered condition.

Quiet came, the plays went on, when Marie was
asked to run upstairs and bring a little box. She
tripped away and brought it. It was opened.
" Quelque chose pour vous, Marie ! " and, behold,
another envelope with " 500 francs! Pour P amour
de Jesus." Again, laughter and joy and clapping
of hands, when appears upon the scene a little old
lady, with antique dress, who demands Marie
Schalner, for she has again 500 francs, with the
motto: " Dieu vous gardera toujour "s." The poor
girl is silent. She cannot express her feelings.
She is asked to pass a paper from the piano. Be-
neath it is another envelope : " Pour Marie ! 300
francs/ iXous vous aimons beaucoup !" Tears,
unbidden, will come to her eyes. She brushes
them away bravely, for she had shed none in all
her great distress. Now conies the boy — her favor-
ite — with knapsack, his uncle's war-worn epaulets
and sword : "Je suis soldat de la France! Oil est
Marie?" And once more: " Pour Marie ! 300
francs. Le Bon Dieu vous n'oublier jamais ! "

The rush of joy, the strain, was too great, — from
sheer happiness she burst into tears. Mrs. B. could
wait no longer. Running to their depository, she
seized the remaining packages, and placed them all
in the lap of the trembling girl.

" Here, Marie ! The good God has not forgot-
ten you. Here are five thousand francs ! all yours,
and with them you have the kind love and sympa-
thy of all who know you ! "

Laughter and tears, — how closely they arc allied !
and how they mingled on that happy day !

Again the holiday games went on, again song
and story, till the shadows fell, ending the beautiful
New Year's Day.

Now Marie has resumed her wonted place. She
has become quite skillful in the use of her artificial
arm, with her left hand writes long letters home,
and uses her needle deftly. She arranges her simple
toilet jauntily, ties her tasty neck-ribbons without
assistance, does a thousand things that would seem
impossible, and again the house is musical with her
merry songs, which the canary in vain attempts to
rival.

220

JACK -IN -THE- PULPIT.

[JanuaI

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

A Happy New Year to you, my chicks ! and
a good New Year too. If I were a French Jack-
in-the-Pulpit, you should have a fine New Year's
card from me, — a card covered with all sorts of
hearty, loving messages and good wishes. The
birds tell me how in that sunny land friends send
pretty New Year's cards to one another, — picture-
cards, showing the sender in the act of trundling a
wheelbarrow, or carrying a basket, or leading a
pony ; anything, so that it can be laden with tablets
and bundles, each indorsed with a loving thought
or wish. Sometimes he is shown tugging along
with great difficulty an enormous sack of money,
labeled 900,000.000,000,000,000 francs ! This is to
give a faint idea of the sum he should like to bring
to his friend, if he could get it. Nowadays, the
French photographers can take one's likeness in
this way, so that the funny- card really represents
the sender himself.

Now, I should like that. So far, only the birds
know your Jack's face, exactly ; but a French
photographer might be able to show me as I really
am, and in the very act of trundling up to your
doors $973,430,240,327,800,432.00^ !

Would not that be fine ?

STRANGE SCENT BAGS.

SOME of the children in the red school-house
made pretty scent-bags for the dear Little School-
ma'am last Christmas, from directions given in ST.
Nicholas, I believe ; and these led her to tell
them how, in old English times, it was quite fash-
ionable to use nutmegs as a perfume. Yes, a nut-
meg, set in silver and decorated with pearls and
precious stones, often was hung from a lady's belt,
like a modern scent-bottle.

Another curious scent-bag of those old days
was an entire orange-skin, filled with a sponge

saturated with vinegar and spices. It was usedl
prevent infection, and was hung to the girdle
carried in the hands of fashionable people. T 1
was the beginning of vinaigrettes. After a whij
oranges were discarded, and little jars or cases I
silver, with holes in the top, were used in th
stead.

FEED THE BIRDS.

Here is a letter from a kind-hearted lady whc
example is well worth following. Take a h
from it, my human birdies ! Notice, too, how 1
feathered creatures, in their turn, cared for th
poor little prisoner :

Deak Jack : Several years ago, we lived at a very beautiful p
about four miles from Washington, near Fort Bunker Hill,
house was built on the only level piece of ground on the place ;
was a sloping terrace to our kitchen garden, down which in wi
the children delighted to coast, and from which in summer
gathered fine strawberries. The winter of "e6 was of unusual sevi
for our climate, and for six weeks we had very good sleighing. Dii
this time the birds suffered greatly. As soon as we discovered!
trouble, the children and I filled a large waiter with bread-cm
and seed, and put it on the roof of our porch. After a long time,
birds flew to the waiter and timidly tasted the seed. Then the)
their heads together and flew off. In about ten minutes they rem
with thirty birds, who ate greedily. Then there was a consult:
between two, and a brown bird was sent off. He returned, brin
two birds with him, one of which was set in a corner and watche
die brown bird while his companion ate until satisfied. He
escorted the prisoner to the waiter, and permitted him to taste ol
good things. For several mornings this was repealed, and we bet
convinced that the solitary bird was a prisoner under some sent
of punishment, which seemed to last a week, during which tiro
bird approached him but bis guard. The children fed the bin.
winter; the hungry little creatures finally came by hundreds, an
lessen the expense we mixed corn-meal and oats with the seed,
so kept our bird-table constantly spread till mild weather set
Yours truly, Raymonl

FIVE "THATS."

Bear Jack: I heard our school-teacher say that five "th
could be used in succession in a single sentence. She did n't con
it elegant English, by any means, but said there was no rule in g
mar to forbid the use of them, if any one chose to adopt such a
of talking or writing. Here is a specimen of " that-iness : "
"Jane said that that ' that ' that that boy wrote was a conjunct.
Now, Jack, how would your St. Nicholas children parse
"that" sentence? — Yours affectionately, M

AN ESQUIMAUX HOUSE, OR HUT.

One would think that, cold and dreadful as a
Arctic regions are known to be, the inhabit I
would need every comfort that could be imagii
in the way of a house. But no. The first til
the Esquimaux does in his home-building ij
clear away the snow and ice from a spot of gro!
of the right size for his house. This he makejH
smooth as he can, leaving one end a little hi;;
than the other. The higher end is to serv'
parlor and bed-room ; the lower as work-shop
kitchen. Around this cleared spot of earth bll
of hard frozen snow are laid in such a fashion
they form a low round roof, resembling in si
the half of a hollow ball. By way of a wine
a small square of rather thin and clear ice is
into the wall.

On the side of the house least exposed to \
is a long and very low passage-way leading to "
open air. This passage is so low that the inm
of the house have to crawl through it on
hands and knees. The door is only a loose bR
of snow.

These huts do not appear to be very charn

7-1

JACK-IN-T HE -PULPIT.

221

iidcnces, but there are two good things about
;m. One is, that the high winds of that desolate
jion cannot possibly blow a hut over, though they
ly bury it in snow ; the other good thing is that
one hut can be lived in longer than a season,
le poor Esquimaux are, unfortunately, a very
ty people, and if they lived ever so long in one
use they would never clean it. But the snow-
use finally cleans itself in the most thorough
inner, for as soon as the warm days of summer
lie it melts away, and its inmates must set about
ilding a seal-skin tent that will shelter them till
iter comes again.

SKIPPING ROPES IN GLASGOW.

Glasgow, November, 1876.
Iear Jack-in-the-Pulpit : I am spending the autumn in Scot-
(| J with my mother, and I often see a queer thing in the streets of
;ij sgow. It is the way the girls jump the rope. They use two
) I iping-ropes. Two girls turn the pair of ropes, each holding two
e I dies in one hand, and another girl stands between them and jumps.

THE GLASGOW STYLE.

. has to jump twice as fast as if there were but one rope, and these
igow girls do it splendidly. They beat the American girls com-
ity. I can't draw as well as the fellow who did Washington and
iittle hatchet in the Young Contributor part of St. Nicholas, but
above picture will show you how the girls do it.

looked so very easy when they did it, that one day I said,
joh ! let me try." And they did.

his sort of play, however, is only fit for girls. — Your affectionate
sr, George Henry Wirt.

WHAT MADE THEM SOP

MUST say it ! Human beings, considering how
:nted they are, are very foolish. If not, why do
y make other living things afraid of them in-

, .id of teaching love and confidence by their own

! ' l mple ? Almost all animals who see men for the
t time approach them without fear. I am told
/intelligent birds, that when the naturalist, Dar-

] '\.i, went to the Galapagos Islands, he there found
/ks that had never seen men, and they were so

"ue that he shoved some of them gently off a
'nch with the muzzle of his gun, while others

"'"fie to drink from a pitcher he held in his hand.

■ " 5 only because, for generations, beasts and birds
e been so often deceived and cruelly treated by

"j.i that they have become suspicious of them.

'»'; : of these days, when this becomes a country

l«F
01
i

■:

Bird-defenders, we shall see a change for the
:er. Real birds may then poise themselves fear-
ly on boys' and girls' hands ; and never again
11 the ghastly sight be seen of a poor, stiffened
g stuck on a hat-crown as an ornament.

A FERN THAT LOOKS LIKE A LAMB.

In China there grows a fern which bears a curi-
ous likeness to a lamb. This likeness causes En-
glish-speaking people who have seen it, to call it
the Tartarian or Scythian lamb fern. It is covered
with a dense, soft, vegetable wool, of a yellow color.
Its main stem, covered with the wool, lies flat, a
short distance above the ground, and other hang-
ing stems, look like little legs supporting it.

BISMARCK'S DOG.

The celebrated Prince Bismarck, I am told, has
a wonderful dog — a large lean fellow, as black as a
raven's wing, faithful and devoted as it is possible
for even a dog to be. He is inseparable from his
dark-browed master, following him everywhere,
without taking his eyes from him.

According to my informant, when the Prince
is called to the Emperor's presence, the dog
recognizes the helmet which he wears (instead
of his military cap), and then he does not follow
him. He knows also that he must not accompany
his master to the Reichstag (the German parlia-
ment), whither the Prince ordinarily goes on foot.
The dog follows him to the gate of the park, and
then his master turns, and, raising his blue cap
trimmed with saffron-colored galoon, says briefly,
'"Reichstag!" The dog understands; he lowers
his head, droops his tail, and returns sadly to the
house.

THE BIGGEST FLOWER?

Here is a letter from a bright Princeton boy.
The little fellow tells the simple truth of the Rafflesia,
but still your Jack stands up for the Victoria Regia.
It has beauty and grace, and so is entitled to rank
w'\i\\JIowers j- but as this big vegetable something
has neither, it ought to be ruled out. What say
you, my chicks ?

Dear Jack : In the July number of the St. Nicholas, in speak-
ing about the Victoria Regia, you seem to consider it the giant flower
of the world. I always thought so too until the other day, when,
reading a book called "The Universe," by Mr. Pouchet, I found I
was mistaken, and that there was a larger one. The best way to
describe it is to quote his own words :

'' But the flower of the Rafflesia Arnoldi, a perfect monster of vege-
tation, leaves all these far behind. It is found in the forests of Java
and Sumatra. Its outlines and gigantic proportions separate it so
widely from every tiling known, that in spite of the assertions of trav-
elers, botanists refused to believe, and persisted in looking upon the
colossus as a fetid fungus. The discussion did not cease till one of
these [lowers was sent to London and examined by R. Brown, who
dissipated all doubts. Each flower was found to be composed of a
fleshy mass weighing from twelve to fifteen pounds. Its border, the
circuit of which was not less than ten feet, showed five lobes, forming
a gaping excavation capable of holding a dozen pints of fluid."

It also says that it exhales a repulshe, carrion-like smell, and that
the Javanese prostrates himself before it and makes it almost a divin-
ity. You also say of the Victoria Regia that the leaves are very
large (eight feet) : but there are some larger ones yet. The plant
known as the Welwitschia TYlirabilis has two leaves nine or ten feet
long. It is of a pale green color. The leaves are sometimes much
larger, being nearly four yards long. It grows in South-west Africa.
But I fear I am writing too much, so good-bye, dear Jack. — I remain,
yours truly, A. G. Cameron.

A DOLL' FOR A SIGN.

If you were in England, and saw a black doll
hung up as a sign, what would you expect to find ?
Toys ? Not a bit of it. You 'd find a " rag shop ! "
What an insult to the dolls ! What shall we do
about it ? And they call it a "dolly shop," too !

222

FOR VERY LITTLE FOLKS.

[jANU^f I

THE FROGS' PICNIC.

There were once five little frogs who had a holiday. They all agre
that it would be great fun to go on a picnic, and so their mothers tc

THE SMALLEST FROG TAKES A SWIM

them that they might go, if they would be careful and not get their i
dry. You know that when a frog is right well, his feet always feel c
and damp. If you ever catch a well frog you can feel his feet, and
if this is not so.

So off these five frogs started, all in high glee, and bound to m
a merry day of it. They soon reached a small woods with a pre

uj'jjj FOR VERY LITTLE FOLKS. 223

ream running through it, and there they agreed to have their picnic,
'hey hid their dinners, which they had brought with them, behind a small
ush, and then they began to play games. They played a good many
tt'ery nice games, suitable for little frogs, and enjoyed themselves very
tu mch, jumping about in the damp grass and among the wet leaves in the
oods ; for it was yet quite early in the day, and the dew was still on
le ground.

But after a while the sun rose higher, and the day became warmer,
.id then these little frogs did not care so much for jumping and hopping
Dout on dry land. So they all sat down to rest near the edge of the
ream.

Very soon the smallest frog said he was warm and dry, and he jumped
|ito the water to take a swim.

" Come on in ! " he called out to the others. " It 's splendid ! I did
Dt know how uncomfortable it was out there."

"Oh, ho!" said the oldest frog, "we're not going in the water. We
in do that any day. Don't you know this is a picnic ? "

" Yes, I know it is, and that 's the reason I want to have all the fun

can. You had better come in before your feet get dry, and you make

ijurselves sick."
I
The other frogs thought that this little fellow was very silly. One of

■ lem turned her back on him and would not have a word to say to him.

|:he second largest frog grinned at him until his mouth stretched out nearly

j[h wide as his body, and said :

lu " You must be a simpleton ! Going in to swim when we are out on

•• picnic, and want to have a good time doing things that we don't do

jy'ery day. You might as well have staid at home."

|1 But the little frog did not mind what the others said. He just swam

oout and enjoyed himself.

! The other frogs thought that this was very ridiculous and improper,

Ut as they looked at him he seemed so comfortable in the clear, cool

ream, that they almost wished it was yesterday or to-morrow, or some

ly which was not a picnic-day, so that they might go in too.

Sometimes the little frog came out and wanted to play. But they did

)t care about playing, and as the day wore on they began to feel so

idly that they agreed to consider that the picnic was over.

The minute this was settled the five frogs sprang altogether into the

j,r and came down splash / into the water.

Oh how delightful and cool it was !

224

FOR VERY LITTLE FOLKS.

[Januae

" No more picnics for me ! " cried the widest-mouthed fellow. " I
in for enjoying myself."

"Well," said the little frog, "I don't see why we can't have a picnii
without thinking that we must do something uncommon all the time,
think that frogs can often have lots more fun doing the things that the}
do every day, than when they try to do something that they are no
used to."

That was a very wise little frog.

BROKEN TOYS.

A little girl, just four years old,

Had many a pretty toy,
And did not try to keep them nice,

But only to destroy.

Her mother's scissors she would get
And clip the things she found,

Till cloth and pictures on the floor,
Cut into bits, lay round.

Her family of dolls, alas !

When they were put to bed,
This one had lost a leg or arm,

And that would have no head.

One day, a darling doll came home,
The prettiest in the world,

Its eyes so blue, its cheeks so red,
Its fair locks neatly curled.

FOR VERY LITTLE FOLKS.

225

But in one week how sad a wreck,

For all its cost and care !
Its leg's and arms and nose were gfone,

And its poor head was bare.

THE SHELF I >F BROKEN TOYS.

Then her papa hung up a shelf,
And placed there in a row

Her broken toys, and, oh ! they made
A very ugly show.

But when the mischiefs she had done

This little mrl had seen,
Oh, then she cried and said : " Mamma,

How naughty I have been ! "

220

MOTHER GOOSE OPERETTA.

[January

MOTHER GOOSE OPERETTA.

(/« Three Scenes, founded upon the Story of "Bobby Shaftoe." )

By G. B. Bartlett.

Characters and Costumes.

Five or more pairs of boys and girls as peasants — with bright skirts,
laced bodices, high-crowned muslin caps, or any picturesque costumes
for the girls ; knee-breeches with broad suspenders, and white shirts
(no coats), straw hats with bright ribbons, for the boys.

Herbert has a suit of same style as the other peasants, over which
he has a short coat trimmed with yellow braid.

Bobby Shaftoe also has a coat, much plainer than Herbert's; he
has light curly hair, and wears large tin, or silver-paper, buckles at
his knees. In Scene III. he wears a sailor's suit

Marie, blue skirt, pink bodice, high cap with many ribbons.

All except Herbert carry covered baskets, which (if in season) can
have vines of clematis hanging from them and falling over the shoul-
ders of the peasants, many of whom carry them on their heads. One
table, three chairs, and one spinning-wheel will be needed. If the
actors cannot sing, the singing may be performed by concealed per-
sons.

Scene I.

The peasants are heard singing outside ; the chorus grows loud
slowly, and they enter, march twice around and form in a semicircle,
and sing, to the tune of "Dearest May: "

" It is the pleasant twilight, the sun is setting slow,

As homeward from our daily task with merry step we go.
Chorus. It is the close of day;

With hearts so light and gay,
In merry row, we homeward go,
To rest at close of day. "

After singing, they slowly march out, and the music slowly dies
away. Bobby and Marie, who have remained as if in earnest con-
versation, come forward and sing, to the tune of "Lightly row,"
" Yankee Doodle," or any other that may be suited to the words :

Bobby. " Dearest, will you marry me?

For you know how I love thee !
Tell me, darling, will you be

The wife of Bobby Shaftoe ? "

Marie. " Robert, pray don't make me say
What I 've told you twice to-day ;
Let us true friends always stay —

No more, Bobby Shaftoe ! "

Bobby. " If you will not marry me,
I will go away to sea,
And you never more shall be

Aught to Bobby Shaftoe!"

Marie. " Dear Bobby, you will never go,
For you 've often told me so !
You will not go far, I know !

Good-bye, Bobby Shaftoe ! "

Bobby runs away, as if in anger. Marie looks after him, smiling,
as if expecting him back ; grows anxious, follows the way he went
a few steps, then turns and sadly goes in the opposite direction.
Herbert enters from the direction in which Bobby ran, and follows
Marie, as if he had been listening to the conversation. End of
Scene I.

Scene II.

Marie enters very sadly, goes to the table at left, takes up knitting-
work, throws It down impatiently, draws spinning-wheel to the right
of the room, begins to spin and sing.

" Toil is sweet when hearts are light,
Sunshine follows darkest night;
Always when the heart is right,

Trouble will not linger."

Peasant girl enters in great haste, and sings:

" Marie, have you heard the news?
Our dear friend has had the blues,
And has sailed upon a cruise —

Our dear Bobby Shaftoe ! "

Marie rises in confusion, upsets the wheel, and sings :

" Bobby Shaftoe gone to sea!
And no message left for me?
Oh, it cannot, cannot be !

Dearest Bobby Shaftoe ! "

She cries, leaning her head on the shoulder of her friend, and
two girls sing in duet :

" Bobby Shaftoe 's gone to sea,

Silver buckles on his knee; C thee,
But he'll come back again to I me,
Pretty Bobby Shaftoe!"
End of Scene II.

Scene III.

Three years are supposed to have passed. Marie sits very sad
at work. Herbert enters and leans over her chair. Herbert sings

" Marie, why so cold to me ?
I was ever true to thee.
Bobby Shaftoe 's lost at sea;

Give up Bobby Shaftoe ! "

Marie. "No, he is not lost at sea!
Fate cannot so cruel be
As to tear away from me

My own Bobby Shaftoe ! "

Herbert. "Pray, consent my wife to be!
For I know he 's lost at sea,
And you '11 never, never be

Wife of Bobby Shaftoe ! "

Marie kneels down, resting her head on the chair, as if in teal

and sings, very sadly :

" If he 's dead or lost at sea,
I can never care for thee ;
Live or dead, I *ll faithful be,

And true to Bobby Shaftoe ! "

Bobby comes rushing in, dressed as a sailor. Marie runs tow
him in rapture.

Bobby, "Darling. I've come back from sea,
I 've come back to marry thee,
For I know you 're true to me —

True to Bobby Shaftoe ! "

Marie, " Yes, I always cared for thee !

And now you have come from sea,
We shall always happy be,

Dearest Bobby Shaftoe!"

Peasants enter and shake hands with Bobby, then form a
around him and Marie, and after dancing, sing t* the tune of "I>
est May: "

" We welcome home our comrade, who wandered far away,
To love and peace and rapture upon this happy day !
Chorus. O happy day ! with hearts so light and gay,
We joyous sing in merry ring,
O happy, happy day ! "

Note. — In the dialogue, the first singer sings one half of the
r.nd the other concludes it.

:8?7-I

YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS DEPARTMENT.

227

YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS' DEPARTMENT.

A QUEER WAY OF WRITING.

Away down in the southeastern corner of the .Mediterranean Sea
! Egypt, a country of absorbing historic interest. Before the founda-
ons of the magnificent temples of Athens were laid, Egypt was in
s maturity of grandeur and prosperity; and while the site of what
'e call ancient Rome was yet an uninhabited waste, the land of the
'haraohs was already in its old age. Surrounded on every side by
;as, and mountains, and almost impassable deserts, it was by nature
efended from the approach of enemies, and seemed intended by
'rovidence for the abode of a favored people. Watered by a noble
ver, which traversed its entire length from north to south, it way as
trtile as a garden, though rain was
■Imost as unknown within its bor-
ars as snow is in the tropics. Every
ear. the river overflowed its banks,
id covered the surrounding coun-
y; and when the waters gradually
lbsided, they left upon the land the
ch soil which the stream had borne
om the table-lands of Abyssinia.

hus Egypt became the great gran-
y of the world in ancient times.

ou remember the story of Jacob and

s sons as recorded in the Bible,

here it is said that when a famine

•evailed in the land of Canaan, the

ttriarch heard that there was " corn
Egypt," and sent down to get

■me of it. And for many centuries

e Mediterranean was dotted with

ssels carrying to other nations the
l-oducts of the valley of the Nile.
pjp you see that in old times, Egypt

as a place of great importance to

most all the known world, and you

ill find the study of its history, as

Id by its monuments and their in-

riptions, one of the most interesting

1 the records of the earth.

1 But what I wish especially to call

iuT attention to in relation to Egypt
one of its systems of writing. I

y one, because the Egyptians were

<t satisfied with less than three;

e, the hieratic, used solely by the

iests ; another, the enchorial, or

■pular, used by the people gen-
ally; and the hieroglyphic. This

-m is derived from two Greek

jrds, meaning "sacred" and " to
' rve ; " and literally means " sacred

iting," the priests in old times be-

* the chief, if not the only, writers,
is commonly used, however, in the
use of "picture-writing;" that is,
nveying ideas by pictures of ani-
ite or inanimate objects. In its
rliest use, the Egyptians were
abably contented merely to make

direct imitation ; thus a picture of
man would mean a man, and a
:ture of a camel would mean a
.tnel. This is very well, so far as
goes. If you saw a representa-
n of a man with a big stick run-
ig after a small boy, you would
once know that the artist intended
to be understood that the boy

uld probably get a whipping. But you would also see that the
:ture gave you no other information about the matter. Doubtless
ne Egyptians noticed this, and so the system was further perfected
making the signs symbolic; that is, causing the representation of
: object to convey the idea of another For instance : if the boy in
: supposed case were the son of the man, an egg would be drawn
ngsidc of him, an egg being understood by the Egyptians to indi-
e such a relationship. Still, however, the system was open to
ater improvement, and so the next step was to make the symbols

* oneiic ; that is, to make them stand for the sound of a letter in
alphabet. Now you will perhaps wonder how a picture of a

ise, or a chicken, or a lion, could serve to represent a letter ; but
1 will see that the plan adopted was very simple, and very intclli-
le. The main principle of it was this: to find out what alphabet-
I sound is meant by the picture of any object, take the name of
t object in the Egyptian dialect, and the Ji'st letter of such name
he letter indicated by the picture. Thus, in the ancient Egyptian
guage, tot means "hand; " so that if we find a drawing of a

hand, it stands for T, that being the initial letter of lot. Or, mooladj
means " owl," and the picture of an owl represents \l.

Of course, by this method, each letter of the alphabet could be rep-
resented by any object of whose name it was the initial; but the
Egyptians did not take any word, merely because it happened to suit
in this respect alone. Sometimes they selected names because the
objects to which they belonged could be more symmetrically arranged
in a picture ; sometimes they chose a figure which, while it expressed
the desired letter, also denoted some quality which belonged both to
the object delineated and to the person or thing whose name it was
used to spell. To illustrate : suppose we could bring a mummy back
to life, teach him the English language, and then ask him to write
the word "America" in hieroglyphics. If he proved to be a very
intelligent mummy, willing to adapt himself to new circumstances, he
would proceed thus, using English words, and choosing them with
reference to their symbolic meanings:

A. He would draw an nsp — symbolic of " sovereignty."

M. He would select a mace — indicative of " military dominion."

E. An eagle, as it is a part of our national arms, and means

" courage."
R. A ram — emblematic of frontal power, or "intellect."
I. An in/ant would typify the youth, and as yet undeveloped power

of this country.
C. A cake— the consecrated bread of the Egyptians— significant of

a civilized region.
A. The amaranth — typical of " eternal life."

Thus he would have drawn pictures of the following objects:

Asp, symbolic of Sovereignty.

Mace, " " Military Dominion.

Eagle, " " Courage.

Ram, " ,( Intelligence.

Infant, " " Youth.

Cake, " " Civilization.

Amaranth, " " Perpetuity.

You sec that the initial letters of the names of the objects spell the
word "America." Under the picture would be drawn a diagram,
somewhat like two rough-hewn boot-jacks placed side by side, that
being the Coptic character meaning "country." I ought to say,
though, that the Egyptians had a disagreeable habit of omitting the
vowels in writing hieroglyphics, so that America would be written
with the symbols for " M. R C," and the sign for "country."

With such a method of writing as this, an Egyptian school — had
there been any — would have been a funny sight. Imagine the
teacher calling out, "First class in spelling, stand up! " and a row
of boys make their appearance, each armed with a piece of chalk, or
some similar article that would make a mark. Then, when the
teacher gave out a word, a boy would step up to the blackboard of
that period — whatever it was — and spell the word by drawing figures
of cats, and dogs, and any other objects which his fancy suggested.
I think we should have laughed at the sight.

Upon the whole, I rather think our mode of writing and spelling
is preferable to that of the Egyptians; but the construction of such a
system as theirs, at such an early period in the age of the world,
shows vast ingenuity and a high degree of civilization. H. R, c.

ON THE CLOSING OF THE CENTENNIAL.

Close the gates ! A nation's grand pastime is o'er !
The goods must be again embarked for Europe's sunny shore.
Send back to England all her large display of products fair, —
Her china, silks, and jewels ; her emblazoned silver-ware.
Do not forget the pictures — Landseer's "Lions." and the rest.
Wc thank thee, Mother England, for the good and kindly zest
And interest thou hast shown us in our bright Centennial glee
And we send thee back thy products in safety o'er the sea.

France ! we proffer thee our thanks for thy glorious display

Thou fair and sunny land ! how bright has been thy day !

Thy tapestries are marvelous, thy jewels wondrous fair,

Thy dresses and fine bronzes and painted china rare!

Well hast thou done thy part; and we pray that thou mayst see

Full many years of glorious peace. Fair France, farewell to thee!

Italia! thy display has matched the very fairest there;

The peace we have so long enjoyed, may 't be thy lot to share!

Thy bronzes and mosaics, thy gems and sculptures old,

Thy wondrous old collections, are worth a wealth untold.

And now we send them back again, in the hope that thou mayst see

Them safely landed on thy shores. Farewell, O Italy !

Germania next, thy fair display has called forth praises rare.
Thy porcelain and thy painted tiles, thy toys and silver-ware.

228

THE LETTER-BOX.

[January^

Are wondrous fair. We give thee thanks for all that thou hast done.
And now, Germania, fare thee well, thou bright land of the sun !

Ye nations all ! accept our thanks. God grant ye all may see
Long centuries of prosperous life and glorious liberty !

Nor think America forgets your interest and your zeal;
She offers up most heartfelt prayers for your good luck and weal.
Farewell to all ! and Heaven grant that when we meet again,
It may be still to sing that song of peace on earth to men !

a. r. c. (aged 14}.

There are five fingers on each little hand ;

Five jolly holidays all through the land.

There is May-day so sweet, jolly "Fourth" with its noise,

Thanksgiving and Christmas, for girls and for boys;
And New Year's so brimful of hope and good cheer,-
Merry Christmas to all, and a Happy New Year!

THE LETTER-BOX.

"The Minuet" — our frontispiece for this month— is such a beauti-
ful picture, that our young readers will all be glad to know something
about the artist. It is copied from a picture by John Everett Millais,
a celebrated English painter, born in 1829, who became distinguished
even in his boyhood. At the age of nine he gained a medal from the
Society of Art in his native town. At eleven, he entered the school
of the Royal Academy, where, after three years, he took another
prize. In 1046, he exhibited his first picture at the Academy, and
the next year, when only eighteen, he obtained the gold medal for
the best oil painting. Since that time Mr. Millais has painted many
beautiful and famous pictures, and is now one of the most noted of
London painters. ''The Minuet" is among the most graceful and
pleasing of his works. He is one of the founders of the modem
Pre-Raphaelite school of art. In addition to his labors with the brush,
he has employed part of his time in illustrating hooks and magazines.

Ship "St. Mary's," off Cape May, N. J., Oct. 17, 1876.

Dear St. Nicholas : It would have done the hearts of the vast
army of bird-defenders good to have seen our ship off the New Jersey
coast October 15th. The night before, while our watch was on deck,
a strong nor' west gale set in, and shortened our visit to the Centen-
nial Exhibition by a number of days, for it drove us out to sea, and
we are still some forty miles from land. The gale lasted for two days
and nights, being the heaviest the last night.

Our watch was on deck from midnight to four A. m., and as the
dawn drove off the mists and clouds, we saw that we were not the
only unfortunates blown to sea, for we could see birds on deck, in the
rigging, and even on the deck below. Some of the boys commenced
chasing them, but the officer of the deck was a bird-defender at heart,

and forbade any interfering with the tired little fellows, and this mad
them less timid than usual, a few getting so bold as to fly on some c
the boys' shoulders, and allow themselves to be caressed and handle)
One little fellow, called a Cape May warbler, I believe, discovere
the .source of the warmth he felt, and spent a good deal of his time ;
the side uf the pipe from the ship's galley, or cooking stove. Tl
following list will give you a faint idea of the number of birds blow
to sea in a storm and lost. Four warblers, two chippies, two cro
blackbirds, a wild pigeon, two wax-wings, two cat-birds, two sm;
woodpeckers, a robin, a golden-crested wren, and a highholde
eighteen in all, of my own counting, and I do not know how mar
I niiss.d. One was caught hv a high wave and drowned, one di'
in captivity, and another still lives; but the rest stuck to the ship I
equal to the task, when they left us, the larger birds going first. Tl
morning we were honored by a passing view of six of the largest to
ties we ever saw outside of a restaurant, swimming slowly over tl
great waves, and every now and then cutting queer figures with th
white flippers in the air, as a cunning old roller turned them on th«
broad brown backs.

"All hands" have just been "piped to hammocks," which mca
get and make your beds, and go to sleep as soon as possible,
must close this letter

Oct.

Since the letter above was written, we got a pilot, saili
the beautiful Delaware River, watching the laden trains carryi
their living freight to Philadelphia, and are now anchored off Will
street, Philadelphia.

Perhaps some of the St. Nicholas young folks would like to v
the ship at Twenty-third street wharf, E. R., New York, next winl
and we would be glad to have them come. The ship lies at
wharf, is reached by the Twenty-third street cars {red light).. '
there is nothing but a firm covered "bridge " to walk over to reach ?

We will get back about the 10th of December. — Yours respecttu

\V. L. Rodman

t. 19, 1070,
ed calmly

a??-:

THE LETTER-BOX.

!29

Geo. E. M. — It is impossible to answer, or even notice, one-fiftieth
" the letters received from our young correspondents, but we en-
•avor to give attention to those questions which appear to possess
ie greatest general interest.

Lyons, October 2j, 1876.
Dear Little Schoolma'am: My brother was out hunting the
her day ; he shot six ducks at one shot, and one of them had four
5s, two of them were smaller than the others, and were right at the
ie of its tail. Don't you think that was pretty queer ! I will send
iu a few feathers from its wings to put in your hat.

Lucv M. Everett.

Dear Editor: I have been to see Santa Claus. You see we
ve heard so much during this last year of panics and specie pay-
:nts, failures and hard times, and everybody has looked so blue,
it I feared a little for my old friend's prosperity. I found him walk-
r up and down his den talking to himself after this wise:
■ To give, or not to give ? " that is the question. Whether better
s to suffer the slings and arrows of neglected childhood, or to take
'S against a row of stockings and so with filling leave them. I
ver have left them, and how can I ! Do I not hear my children
Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious Christmas
this good St. Nick, and all the clouds thai lowered round the year
:he deep recess of a stocking buried ! " Oh, thou departing spirit
76! thinkest thou because thou art impecunious there shall be no
re dolls and drums ?

Should'st thou ask me whence these keepsakes,

Whence these presents and donations,

With the odors of the toy-shop,

With the damp and dew of book-stores,

With the crunching of confections,

With the shout of happy voices,

Saying ever " Merry Christmas! "

With their frequent repetitions,

And their sweet reverberations, —

I should answer, I should tell you,

From the baskets of the mothers,

From the needles of the sisters,

From the pockets of the uncles,

From the hands of aunts and cousins,

From the shops of jolly Dutchmen,

From the stores of Yankee Doodle, —

Christmas shall be merry Christmas still.

I travel off across the land

Between the dark and daylight,

I hurry up among the roofs
And slip beneath the skylight.

I clamber out upon the eaves

And pass within the dormers,

By twenty grates, a little store,

And all the chimney corners.

I steal by halls and parlor doors
W r ith many a sweet reminder,

I deck the spreading Christmas-trees
That grow for happy kinder.

And so to all the children bring
My guesses good and clever,

For men may come and men may go,
I 'm Santa Claus forever.

R. J.

fFinisterrc, France, night before Christmas, '75.
: '.AR St. Nicholas : Have you passed a Christmas in a foreign
try, without dear nieces and nephews, or brothers and sisters, to
you, in your own language, "A Merry, Merry Christmas'?"
t, you cannot know how much joy may be expressed — may be
communicated to another — by repeating those three words. Ynu
)t even realize what joy your Christmas number, with its merry
ilng, has carried to hundreds who have received it
France, the great fete-day is the first day of the new year, and
vous snihaite une bonne ci heureuse annr'c 1 ' seems cold and
.1 to one accustomed to our hearty "Merry Christmas " and
1 :ppy New Year." Only to utter the Christmas greeting brings
'liions of "Mamma in her kerchief and I in my cap," — of little
ngs placed so near the chimney corner they cannot be over-
i by the generous Santa Claus. I fancy I hear the prancing
e roof of the impatient reindeer. I am tempted to draw the
ns, darken the chamber, and watch for " the jolly old elf."
re than a strong desire, a lively faith, are necessary to enable us
cans to have a visit here from our friend, for St. Nicholas does
>me to Brittany. Perhaps it is not cold enough for his liny rein-
P perhaps his sleigh would not glide on the steep, irregular slate

roofs, without snow. Would it were possible to hear at least an echo
from over the sea of the " Merry Christmas lo all, and to all a good-
night," which will be repejted by a host of your young admirers.
This wild and romantic Brittany would plea-se St Nicholas, I am
sure ; and then there arc hosts of children, and temptingly large
chimneys.

But the French children have their Christmas also ; and they think
the infant Jesus comes to them. Instead of stockings, they place
shoes to receive their gifts.

I have seen to-day a new French baby, and a French baby is as
pretty as a French baby-doll — not a young lady doll. The babies
are so rolled in flannel, and then folded about with muslin, as the
petals of a rose are folded, that they resemble in form an Indian
papoose, and they may be handled in the saute way without the
slightest danger of injury. They all wear caps. With the peasant
class the caps are retained until they give place to the coif.

It is an amusing sight to see little girls of five or six years of age
trudging along the country roads with their mothers, — an exact copy
in miniature, — with long dresses, coifs, and kerchiefs folded across the
breast. The wooden shoes or sabots, which move up and down at
each step, do not seem to impede their pro Tress or engross their atten-
tion. I have often seen children six or seven years old walking and
knitting at the same time. The habits of industry so early acquired
are retained, and when old enough they will go to market, very pict-
uresquely, conducting the horse and knitting, seated in a square two-
wheeled car, with fresh green cabbages and golden carrots forming a
background; or as fishwomen, carrying the basket on the head — still
knitting. There is for a stranger much that is picturesque and inter-
esting in this ancient duchy of Brittany — churches, chateaux, and
ruins, all well worth a visit from those who come to France.

The bells are ringing for the midnight mass. Here, as in your
midst, it is the same beautiful fete we celebrate.

" There 's a tumult of joy
O'er the wonderful birth,
For the Virgin's sweet boy
Is the Lord of the earth."

Sincerely your friend,

F. G. D. de T.

Minnie Nichols. — Your fraud is discovered. Never send any-
thing to St. Nicholas again.

Dear St. Nicholas : Please write my name down among the
Bird- defenders. I have never been to school. I have lain on my
back in bed nearly a year, so papa lets me keep birds. We have
a canary, a goldfinch, and a bob'link. The St. Nicholas is my
delight, and I wish very much to see my name in it. I am eight
years old. — Yours truly, Joe H. Dennis.

May A. Milligan, Beulah Strong, and several others, have sent
us interesting letters about their trips to the "Centennial."

Our readers will be interested, we know, in the following letter
written by a dear little girl, who died before her pleasant words
reached us. Her heart-stricken mother writes: " I thought perhaps
the children would like to see the little letter written by my precious
child, now an angel in Heaven She wrote it some time since, being
prompted to do so, after reading the letters in St. Nicholas written
by little girls of about her own age, but delayed sending it."

Dear St. Nicholas: Last Christmas my papa asked me which
I had rather have, a large doll or St. Nicholas ? I told him thai I
had rather have St. Nicholas, and he said that everybody was
praising it. He commenced taking it for me in January last As
that other little girl says — whose name is Mary Eichelberger — I can
scarcely wait until it comes. I had a thousand times rather have St.
Nicholas than a doll I was thinking the other day that I would so
like to have the next book. I like that story about "The Cat and the
Countess " I would like to know if the countess ever got her cat
again. I hope to see my letter in the St. Nicholas. Good-bye. I
am only in my eleventh year. My name is Lulie Fowler. I live in
the town of Snow Hill, Worcester County, Maryland.

Lulie Fowler.

Morgantown, N. C.
Dear St. Nicholas: Perhaps some of your readers who have
been amused by the account of Mother Mitchel's wonderful tart,
would like to hear of a cake almost as large that was once cooked
and eaten by real men, very greedy, perhaps, but belonging to king-
doms that we find on our maps. This cake was baked at the Camp
of Radewitz, where, in 1730, King August the Strong, of Poland,
gave an entertainment, lasting a month, at which Frederick the Great

2*0

THE RIDDLE -BOX.

[January,

and his father were chief guests, with a crowd of lesser folk, all the
titled people, and the famous people of Europe. It was fourteen ells
long by six broad, and at the center half an ell thick. There were
five thousand eggs in it; thirty-six bushels of sound flour : one tun
of milk, one tun of yeast, one ditto of butter; crackers and ginger-
bread-nuts, for fillet or trimming, ran all round. After a public din-
ner, given to all these great folk and thirty thousand soldiers, this
cake was brought into the field on a wooden frame drawn by eight
horses. It was cut up by a carpenter, with a gigantic knife, the han-
dle resting on his shoulder, who received a signal from the head of
the Board of Works before cutting each slice. How Mother Mitchel's
tart was cooked we shall not know until December, but I suspect
that, like this, it was baked by machinery. The whole account of
the Camp of Radewitz, which is very interesting, may be found in
Carlyle's " Life of Frederick the Great," vol. 2, book vii, chap. iii.

Mary F. Dickson.

Our many Little-Corporal subscribers will be glad to know thai
Mrs. Emily Huntington Miller has expressly dedicated to them a
delightful little book, called " What Tommy Did," and just as full of
bright things as a little book can be. It is prettily issued by S. C.
Griggs & Co., of Chicago, and we heartily wish it success.

One of the brightest and daintiest holiday books that we have seen
this season is " Bits of Talk for Young Folks," by H H., published
by Roberts Brothers, of Boston. Its few pictures are good, its many
stories are better, and its beautiful poems and legends are best of all.
Our boys and girls will find some old friends in it

The following books have been received ;

From Macmillan & Co., New York: " Johnnykins and the Gob-
lins," by Charles Leland — "Carrots; just a Little Boy," by Ennis
Graham — " My Young Alcides," by Charlotte M. Yonge.

From S. R. Wells & Co., New York: "David and Anna Mat-
son," by Abigail Scott Dunning — "How to Sing; or, The Voice,
and How to L'se It," by W. H Daniell.

From Loring's, Boston: "Sam's Chance" and "Jack's Ward,
both by Horatio Alger, Jr.

From E. Steiger, New York : " Friedrich Froebel," by Matilda
H. Kriege — " Froebei's Kindergarten Occupations."

Fmm Ward, Lock & Tyler, London: "Bluebeard's Widow and
her Sister Anne," by Sabilla Novello.

From Porter & Coates, Philadelphia: " Snowed-up " and " Frank
in the Forecastle," by Harry Castlemon.

From Carleton & Co., New York: "A Comic History of the
United Slates," by L. Hopkins.

From Lee & Shepard, Boston : " Fret-sawing and Wood-carving,'*
by George A. Sawyer.

From the New York Bird Store, Boston: " Holden's Book on
Birds," by Charles F. Holden.

From Hanscom & Co., New York : " Song of America, and Minot ^
Lyrics," by V. Voldo.

From the American Tract Society, New York : " Her Little World,"
by Sarah E. Chester — "Almost a Woman" and "A Happy Sum-
mer; or, The Children's Journey," by S. Annie Frost — "Tht
Romance of the Streets," by a London Rambler — " May Stanhopi
and Her Friends," by Margaret F. Sangster — "A Night and a Day'-
and "The Storm of Life," by Hesba Stretton— " Under Shelter,'
by Annette Lucille Noble — "The Victory Won," by C. S. M,-
" Ruthie's Venture." by the author of "A Summer in the Forest"
and " Litde Stories for Good Little People."

THE RIDDLE-BOX.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN DECEMBER NUMBER.

Rebus. — " There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the
flood, leads on to fortune."
Charade. — Independent.
Double Diagonal Puzzle. — Butterfly, Asclepias.

BabyloniA
dUstbruSh
b uTterCu p
floTiLlas
magnEt 1 z e
c o m p a r i n g
b lItheFul
bAnde r oLe
Secretary

' As mad as a March hare

Easy Diamond Puzzle. —

CAT
A T I N
T I N

Hidden Word-Square.-

CADET
ARENA
DEBAR
ENACT

TARTS

Cross-Word Enigma. — Liberty-.

Transpositions. — 1. Repeated — a pet deer. 2. It is a camel —
calamities 3. I creep— pierce. 4. Anguish — in a gush. 5. Resist a
— satires.

Easy Enigma Story. — Sweetbriar Rose. — Strawberries, roses,
air, sweet, briars, saw, two, browse, its, robs, barrow, bow, arrow,
breast, bars, sorrier, it, roses, berries.

Square-Word. iris

rose

ISLE
SEED

Anagram Proverbs. — 1. "As green as grass." 2. " As busy as a

bee." 3. "As cold as charity." 4.
5. "As nimble as a cow in a cage."

Riddle. — Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday.

Easy Decapitations. — 1. Beagle, eagle. 2. Bear, ear. 3. Fo

ox. 4. Goat, oat. 5. Swine, wine. 6. Weasel, easel. 7. Lark, ar

8. Plover, lover.

Classical Double Acrostic. — Virgil, ^Eneid.

V — irgin— A

I — ren — E

R—hiutho— N

G — lauc — E

I —nfer— I

L — ycome— D

Word Syncopations. — 1. Terrier — err, tier. 2. Leveret — ev>

let. 3. Lawless — awl, less. 4. Flashy — ash, fly. 5. Pageant—aj

pant. 6. Tartan — art, tan. 7. Tendon — end, ton. 8. Swinging

wing, sing.

Double Acrostic. — Biscay, Naples.
B — aro— N
I — ow — A
S — thru— P
C — ow — L
A — ppl— E
Y — e— S
Mathematical Puzzle.— Civil.
A Christmas Puzzle. — 1. Spectacle-case (specked A — cLei ; .
ace). 2. Cup and saucer (C upon saw — cer). 3. Shawl (Sh — av
4. Foot-rest (foot — rest). 5. Breast-pin (B — rest — pin). 6. Diary (
— A— rye) 7. Vase {V— ace). 8. Tidy (tied E). 9. Book-m
(book — mark). 10. Portemonnaie (P o'er T — money). 11. Let
scales (letters K, L, S). 12. Eye-glasses (I — glasses). 13. Pen
case (pence — L — K's). 14. Easel (E's L). 15. Boa (bow — A).
Ear-rings (ear [of comj — rings). 17. Bouquet (bow K). 18. Loc
(lock — Et). 19. Checker-board (checker bored). 20. Club sk;
(clubs— K— eights). 21. Base-ball (B— ace— B— awl). 22. St. Ni
olas (St.— nickel— AS). 23. Jockey Club (Jo— key— club)
Candy (can — D). 25, 26. Violin, accordeon (vial in a cord — IC^

" Mercury " answered correctly all the puzzles in the November number.

Answers to Special Puzzles in November Number were received, previous to November 18, from Helen Green, Bessie McLa
T. Marshall Josselyn, Bessie Lyle, Harrie Y., "Alex," Ella G. Condie, Walter T. Lucas, "Beth." Alice B. Moore, Brainerd P. Em
" Little B.," Forrest E. Libby, Marguerite B. Newton, J. E. Hill, Archie C. Wellington, Josie M. Broun, Emma Elliott, Nessie E Stev
Rachel E. Hutchins, Elizabeth Sherrerd, Benjamin Taylor, Howard Steel Rodgers, Allie Bertram, Hildegarde Sterling, Ora L. Do-
Nellie Emerson, Agnes M. Hodges, Manning J. A. Logan, Willie Dibblee, Clyde Fitch, W. C. Spencer, Mary W. Wadsworth, Kath;
Chapman, Fred Cook, Willie Dunn, Arthur D. Smith, Sallie E. Hewit, Oliver Everett, and Bessie Taylor.

{ 7-]

THE RIDDLE-BOX.

231

REBUS, No. 1.

DOUBLE DIAMOND PUZZLE.

i:ROSS : 1 A consonant. 2. Distant. 3. A city in Europe. 4. A
ious stone. 5. A consonant.

iwnward : 1. A consonant. 2. A fruit. 3. A city in the United
4, An animal. 5. A consonant. black prince.

CROSS-WORD ENIGMA.

My first is in hand, but not in eye ;
My second is in breath, but not in sigh ;
My third is in pencil, but not in pen ;
My fourth is in peacock, and also in hen ;
My fifth is in plant, but not in tree;
My sixth is in latch, but not in key;
My whole is a girl's name.

SYNCOPATIONS.

Syncopate a covering for the head, and leave noisy collision ;
1, and leave what we all yeam for. 2. Syncopate to clutch, and
to struggle for breath ; again, and leave an opening. 3. Synco-
' an Eastern monarch, and leave a vehicle. 4. Syncopate a divi-
}f verse, and leave a noted Roman. 5. Syncopate an iron fasten-
ind leave a lodging-place ; again, and leave a covering for the

CYRIL DEANE.

DOUBLE DIAGONAL PUZZLE.

A custom. 3. A fruit. 4. An article of furniture.

To shape

. lift.

wuward, from left to right: A kind of tree

■ to left ; A word meaning swift.

1 apples.

ENIGMA.

I AM composed of fourteen letters. My 1 and 10 is an article ; my
3, 4, and 7 is an animal ; my 3, 12, 8, and 13 is a kind of bread ; my
5, 9, and 7 is a pronoun ; my n, 12, 3, and 14 is a kind of grain;
my 2, 6, 3. and 10 is a building. My whole is the name of a Presi-
dent of the United States. j j, t.

DIAMOND REMAINDERS.

Bf.head and curtail words having the following significations: 1,
a liquor ; 2, a leave-taking ; 3, long, thin pieces; 4, dances; 5, cun-
ning; and leave a diamond puzzle composed of — 1, a consonant; 2,
something used in backgammon ; 3, a part of the body; 4, a fish;
5, a consonant. l. e.

RIDDLE.

I 'm a very little thing, but oh, how smart !

If you do not see my head, then will your heart

Find me the greatest treasure that the world can hold,

Far better than are house, or lands, or gold.

If now my head be changed, you may declare

I am a pleasant thing for you to wear.

If to me as at first you add one letter,

You then would say that nothing could be better

To pass a happy life in — naught more sweet

Could ever be pressed down by weary feet. h.

Upward, from
L. e. d.

EASY HIDDEN ANIMALS.

Is Eli on the fence ? 2. You came late to-day. 3. Give me that
4. Look ! what a pen ! 5. Do good to all men. 6. Isaac ate
7. Be at ease ; all is well. t. d. d.

CHARADE.

My first is a god of mythology,

Or (making trie god an apulogy)

A common vessel, small and rude;

To do my second is much use —

So thought the famous Robert Bruce ;

My whole is where you keep your food.

p.
SHAKSPEARIAN ACROSTIC.

V. friend of Romeo's and kinsman to Escalus. 2. A noted
ly. 3. The Pope's legate in "King John." 4. The principal
i character in " Much Ado About Nothing.*' 5. The rank of
Jley in " Richard the Second." 6. A fast friend of Shylock.
riend of Hamlet,
(j ! ; initials and finals form two of Shakspeare's best tragedies.

SEDGWICK.

r. That

will not —
my

TRANSPOSITIONS.

■ I ofte

— my sincerity.
4. I had several
with entire .

i hear. 2.
3. There i

- of money

trust me, and you
— for a mouse in
-. 5. I heard the

TRIPLE PUZZLE.

I. — The following words are concealed in the sentences: 1. Fash-
ions, z. To eject. 3. The last. 4. At no time. 5. Even. 6. A
vowel repeated. 7. A crew. 8. A meadow. 9 A small, flat surface.

II. — Between the primals and finals there are complete words to
each line, save the sixth, viz. : 1. A song. 2. A pronoun. 3. A girl's

nickname. 4. A girl's name. 5. Twilight. 6. . 7. An article.

8. To consume, c. Competent.

III. — PrimaUand finals form a double acrostic, and name two things
which are only seen at ni^ht.

1. Young ladies slmuld be modest at all times. 2. Does Lou state
the truth, ever? 3. Come gather flowers for the Little Schoolma'am.
4. Is this cane very strong? 5. I have for sale velvet and satin. 6.
Tell George I invented this puzzle. 7. Is Meg angry with either of
us ? 8. Is he at Henry's new stable ? 9 This table totters as if the
floor was uneven. cyril deane.

SQUARE- WORD.

1. A graceful tree. 2. To worship.
5. Aids.

Regal. 4. A sharp pain.

232

THE RIDDLE-BOX.

[Januab

REBUS, No. 2.

(Read the inscription on this ancient stone.)

PUZZLE.

Find the first word : drop the first syllable, and add a new syllable
to the second, to form the second word. Then drop the first syllable
of that word, and add a new syllable to the second, to form the third
word, and so continue until you have all the words.

i. Rancor. 2. A variety of feldspar. 3. A common bird. 4. Part
of a spur. 5. Part of the arm. 6. An arbor. 7. A mission.

SEDGWICK.

EASY ENIGMA.

Seven letters. My whole is the chief beauty of a tree. My 1, 4, 6
is a foreign fruit tree. My 5, 3, 2, 7 is a tree found in warm climates,
-valued more for its juices than fruit. B -

GEOGRAPHICAL DIAGONAL PUZZLE.

1. The capital of an ancient country famed for its statues. 2. The
largest country in South America. 3. The largest republic in Europe.
4. The capital of a small country in Europe. 5- A country noted for
its handsome shawls. 6 A part of North America.

The diagonals, read from left to right, name a famous Oriental
country. J- J' T-

DOUBLE ACROSTIC.

The initials and finals form the names of two cities in Sout

Europe. Jj

1. A grain. 2. What murderers try to prove. 3. A lady s
ment. 4. A boy's nickname. 5. A coloring matter. 6. A plac

concealment B -
ANAGRAMS.
A Bunch of Flowers.

Transpose each sentence into the name of a flower Thui
letters of "Beaver N" maybe made to form "Verbena."

r. Beaver N. 2. Love it. 3. He sees a rat. 4. O ripe hotel
To be sure. 6. Run as the colt " Bob." 7. O sur, I am green.

DOLLY VARD1

CENTRAL EXCEPTIONS.

Except the central letter from expectations, and leave far
implements ; from a vision, and leave a measure ; from sounds
leave parts of the body ; from an animal, and leave a row ; lrc
waken, and leave a flower; from Indian corn, and leave conlu
from trees, and leave something good to eat.

The excepted letters, read downward, name a bird.

CYRIL DEA

ANDRE, THE ARTIST-SOLDIER.

ST. NICHOLAS

DL. IV.

FEBRUARY, 1877.

No. 4.

[Copyright, 1877, by Scribner & Co.]

THE ARTIST-SOLDIER.
By Charles Barnard.

CVERY American boy has read the story, — has
.rd how the great fort on the Hudson so nearly
into the hands of the enemy. The British war-
3S had crept up the river, and lay at anchor,
- and gloomy, while the Americans manned the
s, anxious and watchful. At West Point the
tinels paced up and down, up and down, all
long days and nights, that none might come
r" to take away the fort and destroy the hopes
he country. All this was in the fall of 1780,
our fortunes were low, and many thought the
I and weary war soon would come to a sad and
zr end.

:'ne night, a boat crept down the river and ap-
jtched the war-ship "Vulture," at anchor near
"ib's Ferry. There was one passenger in the
it, and when they rowed up to the black sides
he ship, he got out and went on board. After
e delay, he returned to the boat, and took with
a young man, a British officer. Silently the
crept over the dark water toward the west-
shore, as if seeking to make a landing in the
s.

he sentinel, poor, ill-clad, and sorrowful for
country, might pace the bleak parapets, clasp
"old musket, and watch — and watch in vain,
commander was not in his quarters. None
'V where he had gone ; but far down the river
lid himself among the fir-trees, as if waiting
fci-ome one. The boat crept nearer and nearer
H Jgh the calm, still night. At last, it broke in
V ng the bushes on the water-side. The two
f>i ;ngers got out and climbed the wooded bank,
ati the boatmen, weary with their labors, lay down
Vol. IV.— 16.

in their boat and soon fell asleep. The British
officer soon found some one waiting for him among
the trees. So they two met, Major Andre and
Benedict Arnold, secretly in the night, because
their deeds were evil.

You know all the rest. How Andre and Arnold
went to a house not far away, and there arranged
the miserable bargain. Money and rank for the
traitor, the fort and all its arms and soldiers for the
British. Not at once and without a fight, but as
soon as they chose to come and take it ; for the
great chain in the river was broken, the fort was
torn down in places, the guns were turned away,
and everything was ready for an easy capture.
Then you remember the morning came, and a
party of Americans on the shore began to fire on
the "Vulture," and the ship was obliged to slip
her anchor and drift away on the tide. Andre saw
it all from the window of the house, and his heart
sank within him, for it was his only hope of escape.
He was within our lines and liable to capture at
any moment. He made an effort to get on board
the ship, and it was useless. Then, you remem-
ber, the flight across the river and the journey in
disguise toward New York, and, at last, the capt-
ure. And that was the end ; it was all found out,
and Andre was taken away, a prisoner, to the
American head-quarters. Arnold escaped on board
the "Vulture," and sailed away in safety and dis-
grace. Andre was tried as a spy and was executed
on the second of October. Finally, so late as the
year 1821, his remains were taken to England, and
now they sleep in Westminster Abbey.

Such is the story as we commonly read it, but it

234

THE ARTIST-SOLDIER.

[Februapv

tells nothing of Andre himself. It tells nothing of
the manner of man he was, how he looked, how he
dressed, and what he said and did. Here is a
picture of him, not as a soldier, for his sword is
laid on the drum, and he has dropped a glove on
the floor and is writing a letter. No, making a
picture — a pen-and-ink sketch of himself from his
likeness in the mirror. Look at the curious fashion
in which, like other men of his day, he fastened his
hair behind with a ribbon. And his ruffled shirt
and cuffs, and the military boots and spurs. He
seems half soldier, half artist, and that must be the
reason they used to call him the artist-soldier.

We read of him as the spy. He was one at the
time of his death, but that he believed to be his
military duty ; he tried to serve his king as well as
he could, and perhaps we cannot blame him so
very much, even if we did punish him so sadly.
He was something else than a mere spy, and it is
more agreeable to think of him as an artist than a
soldier. He did not love war as some soldiers do,
and while in this country he many times tried to
soften the hardships and troubles of the times.
Once he found a poor little boy who had been
captured by the British soldiers in Westchester
County, and brought to New York to be put into
the dreadful prisons the British then kept in our
city. Such a little fellow could do no harm, and
Andre took him away from the soldiers and sent
him back to his mother in safety.

Besides painting and drawing, Andre could sing,
and make charming verses, and cut out portraits in
silhouette. Many of his pictures and letters are
still preserved, and could you read the letters, you
would see that he was a genial, lively, and enter-
taining man. While he was in this country he kept
a journal, and, it is said, it was full of pictures of
plants and insects and animals, people and places,
bits of scenery, and plans of cities and towns. He
used often to give his pictures away as presents to
his friends ; and once, when he was a prisoner in
our hands, and was sent to Lancaster, Pennsylvania,
for safety, he taught the children in the village to
draw. One of the Lancaster boys pleased him so
much, and displayed so much talent, that Andre
offered to make an artist of him, and to take him
to England when the war was at an end. The
boy's father would not consent to this, though he
was pleased to think the English officer should take
so much interest in his son. The prisoners were
afterward removed to Carlisle, and Andre had to
leave his pupil. He did not forget him, for he
afterward wrote a letter to the boy's father, in which
he said that the boy " must take particular care in
forming the features in faces, and in copying the
hands exactly. He should now and then copy
things from the life, and then compare their pro-

portions with what prints he may have, or wha
rules he may remember."

All this was during the war, and Andre himsel
was an enemy ; but we can hardly think of him i
that way. He regretted all the troubles of th
times, and, unlike his brother officers, he neve
called us " the rebels," but " the colonists." Ev.
to this day, his letters and little pictures, his si
houette portraits, and sketches and verses are pre
served in some families in remembrance of th
kind, merry, and cultivated English gentlema
whom we now call Major Andre, the spy.

When he was exchanged, he went back to tt
British army stationed at Philadelphia, and thei
he again displayed his many talents. He painte
a drop-scene for the theater that was thought to I
very fine, and they said of it that "the foliage w
uncommonly spirited and graceful." He also wro
verses to be recited in the theater, and even toe
part in the plays. Once there was a grand pageai
in Philadelphia — a water procession on the Del
ware, with gayly trimmed boats, and bands
music, and ladies in fancy costumes — all ending
a grand ball. Andre took an active part in
these pleasurings, designed the costumes for til
ladies, wrote verses, and helped to put up tl,
decorations.

All this happened when our poor and discourage
troops were having a sad time of it, waiting ai
watching for a chance to strike a blow for t
country. At last, the British were obliged to lea
Philadelphia. Andre went away with them to N>
York, and it was there that he received the cot
mission to treat with Arnold for the surrender
West Point, and that only ended in his captt
and sad death.

Look at the picture again. See the old Colon
furniture and the face in the little glass. It is s;
to be a good likeness of Andre ; he often ma
pictures of himself for his friends, and many
them were preserved long after he died. On fi
last day that he lived he drew his own porti
from memory with a pen, — that is, without the
of a mirror, — and the picture is still in existen
While in New York, just before he went up
see General Arnold, he made several silhou
portraits of ladies who then lived there, and
were said to be remarkably correct likenesses, ;
were, of course, greatly prized afterward as
work of the young, genial, and light-hearted Bril|
officer.

Those Revolutionary days are now very old.
the handsome English gentleman has been dl
long, long years. We can forgive his efforts aga I
us now, and perhaps it will be more agreeabltl
think of him as the artist-soldier rather than
spy at West Point.

77-1

THE SANDHOPPER JIG.

235

THE SANDHOPPER JIG.

By Margaret Eytinge.

1 SAID a Shrimp to a Sandhopper, one summer's day And up in the air he proceeded to jump,

(They were walking along the beach) : While the Hermit Crab shouted " Hurrah !'

I am told that you dance in a wonderful way ; And old Mr. Lobster applauded so hard,

a Pray, would you be willing to teach ? " He broke off his handsomest claw.

\rv x^

3i t'.uite willing, my dear," Sandhopper replied, " My stars ! " cried the children of good Mrs.

,( As merry and pert as a grig ; Shrimp ;

sail your little ones here, and I'll show 'em the " We none of us, little or big,

steps Could learn, we are sure, the very high jumps

Of the rollicking Sandhopper Jig." Of the rollicking Sandhopper Jig.

" All alone must you hop your remarkable hops."
Said Mr. Sandhopper, " I will."
And I have n't a doubt, if you go to the beach,
You will find him there frolicking still.
118!

236

CLEVER JOE.

[February

CLEVER JOE.

By Henry L. Williams.

»VER so long ago, there was a
country, and that country had
a king, and that king had a
lovely little daughter whose
name was the Princess Gay.
This name had been chosen
for the princess by her god-
mother, who was a fairy, be-
cause, even when a baby,
Princess Gay was never seen
without a smile upon her
face, two dimples in her rosy
cheeks, and another in her
chin. In those days, too, the
king was so happy that he
might with equal propriety have been called King
Gay. He was good-natured always, and beamed
so with fun that his courtiers and servants, down
to the least scullions, beamed also, as if to keep
him company. Nothing was to be heard in the
palace but laughter and jests, and the giving of
conundrums. Melancholy persons, and those
afflicted with a passion for gloomy reading and
blue-pills, used to be brought by their friends and
set under the windows, in hopes that the joyous
frolic going on inside might prove contagious and
cure them. And all over the world the land had
the reputation of being the jolliest in existence and
the pleasantest to live in.

This was when Princess Gay was a baby. Be-
fore she had grown to be sixteen, all this charming
state of things was ended. The king had become
crusty, cross, and subject to fits of violent rage.
The courtiers were sullen and frightened, the ser-
vants scarcely dared speak above a whisper. No
more cases of melancholy were brought to the palace
windows for cure, and a gloom lay over the land.
Shall I tell you the reason of this sad change ? Ah,
how truly is it written that the love of money is the
root of all evil ! The reason was that the king's
treasury, in which he stored all his valuables, had
been robbed, and had kept on being robbed day
and night ; how, nobody could discover.

New locks were put on the doors, new bars on
the windows, the police were instructed to watch
the palace, guards were set, the king himself staid
up all night, but nothing made any difference. The
treasury continued to be robbed, and its contents
dwindled so fast, that there was danger, if the
thieves were not stopped, that the king would soon
be poorer than his own subjects. It is scarcely to

be wondered at if, under these circumstances, th
court ceased to be a merry one, and if all its in
mates forgot how to smile. All, that is, except th
Princess Gay, whose charming nature carried he
through all sorts of trouble without a shadow. Sh
laughed and joked, petted her gloomy father, core
forted him as well as she could for his losses, an
every day mounted her little strawberry-red pon;
and went forth for a ride in the fresh air, to reviv
her own spirits for the task, daily growing moi
difficult, of keeping up an appearance of cheerfu
ness in the .dismal circle which surrounded her,

The palace was built upon a hill, and at the fo(
of the hill was a baker's shop, behind which, in
small house, lived the baker, his wife, and their soi
a youth of seventeen. This youth, though hone
and industrious, had the reputation of being vei
stupid ; so the neighbors, out of derision, had name
him Clever Joe. Stupid though he was, Clevi
Joe had eyes in his head, and he used those rour
blue eyes very hard indeed every day when tl
lovely little princess rode past the shop on h
pony. She seemed to him like a vision of fair
land, — so gay, so beautiful, so very, very happ
His gaze followed her as long as she was in sigl
and he thought about her all the time he w
kneading his loaves or mixing the ginger-nuts, f
which the shop was famous.

" How delightful it must be, being a princess
he said one day.

" I don't know about princesses," replied 1
mother, "but it is n't particularly nice being
king, — not when he 's like our king, at least. I
frets so over his money, and the thieves that st<
it, that he can hardly eat or sleep. Better be
baker, and keep your appetite, say I."

" How queer that a king should fret ! " sigh
Clever Joe, opening his eyes wide with wonder
the idea.

Stupid people when they fall in love sometirr
grow clever. Joe was in love with Princess G;
though you have probably guessed that alreac
because, being a princess, somebody must fall
love with her, and as Joe's name heads this sti
of course he is the hero of it. Yes, Clever Joe
in love. He meditated on the princess all day
dreamed about her all night. His romantic
longed for occupations more congenial than
making of household bread and two-penny twis
so he invented a new kind of cream-cake, or w
with a dab of quince jelly in the middle, aroui

CLEVER JOE.

237

lich rose walls of paste white as snow, brushed
-er with egg, and flavored with cinnamon and
non. Such tarts were never seen before in the
lgdom. First, the common people tasted and
proved, next the mayor of the city got hold of
.e, smacked his lips and ordered a dozen, and
(dually the servants of the palace fell into the
bit of coming down the hill to buy them. "The
; own-Princess Tart," was the fine name Joe in-
■lted for these dainties, and as they grew in favor,
'• father, the baker, rubbed his hands and proph-
'sd that fame and fortune were about to de-
nd on the family, and all because of his Clever

One aay, when, having missed two gold cups and
jag of money out of his treasury which were
're when he locked up the night before, the king
> unusually cross, and the courtiers in conse-
^tnce unusually low-spirited. Princess Gay came
in her waiting-maid, seated in a corner and
icking her lips over some article which she
med to be enjoying very much. She jumped
hastily when she saw her mistress, and hid the
lg, whatever it was, under her apron.

You seem to have something nice there," said

princess good-naturedly. " May I inquire what

Only a tart, please your royal highness ; one
tae new tarts which are just now so fashionable."
I' And pray what are they ? 1 never heard of

n before."

Oh ! I beg your royal highness's pardon for
rig ' oh,' but it is so queer that you should not

5 heard of them before ! Why, they are named
■r your royal highness ; ,', Crown-Princess Tarts '

hat the baker calls them. They are the most
'derful and delicious tarts ever made on earth,
<t highness."

Really ? You excite my curiosity. I must

: these tarts. Please send or go at once to the

) and get one for me."

'One ! I beg your royal highness's pardon, I

sure, but one would never satisfy your royal

ness at all. They melt away in your mouth
like nothing, please your highness. I could

wo dozen of them myself ! "

I could n't," said the princess. " That is, I
c I could n't, though really, what with robbers,
(policemen, and worry and confusion, our meals
* been so irregular of late, and, I may say, so
1 that I should really enjoy something nice.

therefore, Beltira, and get two dozen of the
since you are sure that is the proper number.

II probably leave a few, and those will fall to
' share. Bring the tarts up here, and I '11 have

l my room. You can order the second equerry
1 the first usher to ask the third lord of the

bedchamber to say to his majesty that I have a
headache to-night, and am not coming down."

Off went Beltira, gave her message and sped
down the hill to the baker's shop. You can fancy
Joe's feelings when informed that the princess was
going to try his tarts. His fingers trembled with
eagerness, he seized a piece of Swiss muslin and
with it dusted out the oven.

" I 'II make a batch on purpose," he cried, " and
bring them up myself at five o'clock."

When Beltira returned to the palace she found
it in great confusion. Another theft had been dis-
covered. The king was raging to and fro with a
spiked club in his hand, declaring that he would
brain the first ghost of a robber whom he came
across. The lord high treasurer had hidden him-
self, the courtiers had scuttled away like frightened
sheep. At the gates stood the guards, armed and
doubled, and a proclamation was pinned on the
front door which stated that not a soul was to
leave or enter the palace that night without being
searched.

" And what will poor Joe do ? " thought Beltira,
"they will open his basket, and then I know well
what will happen, for those guards have a passion
for pastry ! Not a crumb will be left for the poor
princess — or myself, unless I can hit upon some
plan for getting the tarts in unnoticed."

Just then she recollected that in the princess's
work-basket was a little key which unlocked a small
garden gate, so hidden by rose-bushes that no one
would be likely to remember anything about it.
This key she easily smuggled into her pocket, and
at five o'clock, creeping out quietly, she unlocked
the gate, ran down the hill, met Joe coming up,
and laid hold of the handle of the precious basket.

" Here," she said, " I wont trouble you to come
any farther. In fact, you can't, for the king has
ordered that not a soul shall be allowed to pass the
gates to-night. I '11 carry the cakes in, and you
shall have your basket again to-morrow and the
money."

" But," said Joe, keeping fast hold of his wares,
" I 've set my heart on handing the tarts to the
princess with my own hands. If I can't come in
to-night, I '11 just carry my load home, and fetch
them up again in the morning."

Beltira peeped under the lid. The tarts were
smoking hot and smelt delightfully. " They wont
be fit to eat to-morrow," she thought to herself.
So she coaxed, and pleaded, and urged ; she even
cried, but the obstinate Joe would not give up his
point. Either the crown-princess must take the
tarts from his own hands or she must go without
them ; nothing could shake his resolution.

At last, "Come along, then, you obstinate fel-
low," cried the girl. " I shall lose my place if we

2 3 8

CLEVER JOE.

[February]

are caught, and you will lose your head. But no
matter ; I 'm not going to have my mistress disap-
pointed of her treat."

So in at the little gate and upstairs they crept,
treading softly that none should hear them. At
last they came to the private apartments of the
princess. They were grand rooms, tapestried with
satin and peacocks' feathers.

Joe had no eyes for anything but her royal high-
ness ; and how he saved the basket of pastry from
falling out of his frightened hands he never could
understand.

She was indeed beautiful, in her blush-colored
satin wrapper, trimmed with pearls and garnets ;
diamond necklaces, bracelet, and shoe-buckles, and
her crystal crown (for she only wore her gold one
out-of-doors) balanced artfully on one side of her
curly head. However, she smiled in such a wel-
come manner that Joe was very soon at his ease.

"May it please your royal highness," said Bel-
tira, "this stupid fellow would not give up his
cakes to any one but yourself, so I was forced to
bring him upstairs."

She locked the door as she spoke, for she was
mortally afraid that some one would come in, and,
producing a silver dish, attempted to open the
basket. But Joe waved her back and knelt at the
feet of the princess, and, lifting the lid, displayed
the tarts, arranged in two lines on a snow white
napkin. There were twenty-six, two bakers' doz-
ens, in all, and the savory smell which they sent
forth would have made a hermit hungry enough to
forget his vows.

The princess bent over them and gave a little
cry of surprise and delight. No wonder, for she
had never seen pastry like this before — nor, for that
matter, had any one else. Each tart was made
with jam of a different kind, and in each dab of jam
was traced in white sugar a letter, which, taking
the tarts in order, made up this sentence : " Peace
and joy to our all-beloved."

Still more curious, each tart was flavored with a
jam whose name began with the letter traced upon
it. Thus, p was peach, a apricot, b blackberry,
/ lemon, and so on. It was in fact a declaration
of love written in pie-crust ; but the princess was
so hungry, and the cakes smelt so nice, that she
did not at first find out what they meant.

Beltira brought a plate and fork. The princess
seated herself at the table, and commencing with
the first letter, p, began to eat the tarts one after
another, while happy Joe stood by and rubbed his
hands. At the letter r in "our," which was fla-
vored with rose-juice, the princess stopped.

"You can have the rest, Beltira," she said,
rather faintly, for sixteen tarts at a time is a good
many for even a princess to eat.

Nothing loth, Beltira began her share, and a;
she gobbled even faster than the princess, the lasl
crust soon vanished between her lips. But just as
she ended, and shook out the napkin, — whack !
bang ! came a terrible thump at the door. It was
the king, who, having been told by one of his spies
that a strange man with a basket had been seer
stealing down the corridor which led to the prin
cess's rooms, had come, war-club in hand, to lool
into the matter.

" It 's papa ! " cried the princess, wringing he!
hands.

" It's his majesty! " cried Beltira, wringing hers
" What shall we do?"

" Let me in ! " bellowed the king.

" Yes, dear papa, — in one moment," faltered
Gay. " Beltira, what is to be done with this poo
boy. We must hide him somewhere."

"Yes, but where?" replied Beltira, weepin;
like a fountain. " You can't stow away a great fel
low seven feet long in a bandbox. I shall — lose-
my — place, — I know I shall. It's all your faull
you horrid boy ! I told you how it would be."

" Let me in ! " vociferated the king, with anothe
bang on the door. Crash went the panel ; Joesa'
one of the spikes of the war-club come througl
and his flesh crept.

"The window!" whispered Gay. "Quick!
am coming, dear papa ; have patience ! " — and st
moved toward the door. Like lightning Beltira fle
to the casement, opened it, pushed Joe out, close
and re-bolted it ; and, just as the king rushed in'
the room, Joe alighted on the lid of the water-but
which, luckily, stood beneath the window and brol
his fall. He could hear the king raging over b
head, and demanding to know where was the thie
the man with the basket ; while Beltira loud
declared that no such man had been there, ai
the princess, with soft words, sought to soothe h
angry sire. Unluckily, his majesty, in his furio
career round the room, stumbled upon the bake:
basket, which Beltira had hidden behind the wi
dow curtain. The king glared at the inoffensi
object as though it had been a wild beast, an
with one tap of his war-club, dashed it into bi
while Beltira in vain protested that she could r
imagine how such a thing could gel there.
of the largest pieces of the basket flew through t
window, and in company with a goodly quantity
broken glass, descended on Joe's head as he sto
on the water-butt beneath.

Terribly afraid that the king would next look (
and see him, he was about to fly, when a
hoarse barks were heard, and into the court-y;
bounded as many huge mastiffs as big as calv
The noise had aroused these ferocious watch-d(
and brought them from their kennels.

;

i
:

CLEVER JOE.

2 39

' Well," thought Joe, " one needs be clever, in-
;d, to escape now."

On came the dogs, and above, the king was

dng his head out of the window. There was

K one way of escape. Joe slipped into the water-

.t, and pulled the lid over his head. The mon-

h looked out from above, but saw nothing.

' Good dogs," cried he, " at him — seize him : "

i the dogs were worrying the fragments of basket.

e king ordered lanterns, and went down to see

bit they had caught. The dogs had torn the

)kin which had lined the basket into a thousand

r>; the king flattered himself that these were

ces of the thief's clothing, and that the mastiffs

I eaten the rest of him up !

i' But he may have confederates," said the kindly
iereign; "so, to make sure, leave the pack in

court-yard all night"
i oe's heart sank within him at this command,
1 he settled deeper in the tank.
."he water was ice-cold. It reached above his
jjst, and made him so uncomfortable, that a little
r midnight, he could bear it no longer, and lift-
; the lid of the tank he peeped out. The dogs
::d him in a moment — ran at the tank, jumped
and tried to sieze him. To cool their ardor,
joined his hands, filled them with water and
!hed it down their throats. This made the pack
5ze and howl, till at last the disturbance reached
n to the king's bedroom and interrupted his
:il slumbers; at length he sent down to order
dogs chained up at once. This was a great re-
to poor Joe, who had half emptied the butt in
ending himself from his canine enemies,
.arly in the morning came the palace servants,
!pt the mosaic floor of the court-yard clean, and
ihed out all sorts of rugs and carpets, which
If beat with long canes. The sound of the blows
is more terrible than even the howling of the
s to poor Joe, who cowered closer in his chilly
lion as he listened to them,
t last all went away save two, who were beating
urge and splendid carpet made of velvet, with an
;>roidered pattern upon it of all sorts of gems,
as, in fact, the best carpet of the palace, and
It kept for the floor of the state drawing-room,
only used when other kings came to tea. Joe
ijust thinking whether it would not do to appear
it throw himself upon the mercy of these men,
n, looking about to see if they were observed,
i drew from their pockets a couple of sharp
I'es, and working fast, cut from the jeweled car-
some long, narrow strips, which they wound
id their waists under their clothes.
Aha!" thought Clever Joe, "I begin to see
:h way the king's property goes. However,
no use to cry ' stop, thief! ' at present, those

knives look quite too well ground to make it safe to
do that. But I shall remember their faces, and the
time may come when it will do to give the king
a warning."

The two men went away together, probably to
hide their plunder, and Joe took the opportunity to
climb out of the tank. He was so stiff from his
long soaking in the cold water that he could hardly
stand, far less walk. There was no time to exer-
cise his limbs, however — all he could do was to
seek another hiding-place, and this he found in
the heart of the roll of carpet, stowing himself away
all the quicker, from the fact that one of the mas-
tiffs, spying him from his kennel, began to bark
furiously, and tug as though he would break his
chain. In fact, he did break it, but Joe was safe in
the carpet, and the servants coming back just then,
and seeing the dog capering to and fro, and the
traces of water on the pavement, fell upon the ani-
mal and thrashed him soundly. Then they took
up the carpet and carried it in-doors.

" This is a clever way to get out of the palace, I
must say," observed Joe to himself, creeping from
the roll the moment he was left alone.

Beyond the state drawing-room was another
magnificent apartment, where stood a table spread
for the king's breakfast. The sight of food was too
much for Joe after his long fast. He soon made
such havoc with the viands generally, that in a few
minutes scarcely enough was left to satisfy a fly.

At that moment, while still a cup was in his
hand and a last mouthful of ham-and-egg between
his lips, a blast of trumpets was heard and a voice
in the passage outside cried :

" Make way, ladies and gentlemen of the court,
make way for his majesty the king and her high-
ness the princess royal, coming to breakfast!"

In another moment the king and the whole court
entered the room.

His majesty's first exclamation was of dismay
over the disappearance of the breakfast ; his next
of wrath, for he spied Joe.

"Who is this villain?" he cried, "guards, se-
cure him ! "

The guards, ten at a time, secured poor Joe,
who was too stupefied to move.

" Well, abominable miscreant, detestable marau-
der," began the king, in a tone not calculated to
set any prisoner at ease, " what business brought
you here ?"

Joe's mouth opened. He was about to utter the
truth when, suddenly, he caught sight of the prin-
cess's face, very pale, and looking so terrified that
he changed his mind and told the first lie that came
into his head.

" I am the robber who has stolen your majesty's
treasure," he replied.

240

CLEVER JOE.

[February

"Wretch!" said the king, purple with rage,
" where have you hidden your ill-gotten gains ?
Who are your confederates? Confess all at once !
Off with his head, guards ! off with his head ! "

"But, papa," whispered the princess, "if you
take off his head, he can't confess."

"True!" said the king. "Don't off with his-
head, guards, till further orders. So you are the
robber, fellow, eh ? "

"Exactly;" said Joe, "but I am not the two
robbers who are stealing your majesty's best car-
pet piecemeal.

" Oh, are not you? Then, pray, who is?"

" That is telling," said Joe, shaking his head
wisely, with a side glance at the dishonest servants,
who turned pale as they stood among the rest.

Neither threats nor bribes could make Joe say
more, so at last the king ordered him to the deep-
est dungeon in the palace, "for his impudence,"
as his majesty remarked. He had the consolation
of a little grateful look from Princess Gay as the
guards led him off; likewise, he had secured a
breakfast, which was something pleasant to think of.

And though he was not aware of it, his answers
to the king had really been clever. For in the
middle of the night, as he lay soundly sleeping in
his dungfeon, the door opened, and two men stole
in. These men were the dishonest servants.

"Hush," said one of them. " Speak low. You
are a good fellow not to give up our names to the
king. He would have our ears if he guessed that
we were the thieves."

" I fancy he would," said Joe. "So it will be
well for you to leave the palace before I am exam-
ined in the morning, you know."

" Oh, we don't want to leave the palace. There
is some excellent picking and stealing here still,
and we prefer to stay awhile longer. You shall
leave the palace instead ; that will do quite as
well."

"Oh?"

"We will give you a chance to escape."

"That's very kind, I'm sure. But I shall be
going away with less than I came in with," said
Joe, thinking of his basket and his napkin.

The thieves whispered together.

"Well, then," said one, "since nothing else
will content you, you shall have a peep at the
Treasury yourself, and as much plunder as you can
carry off, provided you will clear out at once, and
never come back. Do you agree ? "

"Yes," said Joe. "But how will you manage
about the guard? He comes every half hour to
the door, and I have to answer, that he may know
I am here. One of you will have to take my place
and reply to him for an hour or so, till I am safely
off."

"Very well, Buglecord, you stay. Come along
my fine fellow. Oh, your chains? We '11 soon ric
you of these; " and the thief cut the fetters loosi
with a pair of nippers. " Make haste," he wen
on. " I '11 come back and let you know, Buglecord
as soon as he 's gone."

So the thief and the baker's son left the dungeoi
noiselessly. As they passed out of the door, Jo
felt for the bolt, and quietly shot it into its staplei
unperceived by his companion. By many windini
ways, upstairs and down-stairs they went, and a I
last came to the Royal Treasury. There were thl
guards, bolts, bars, man-traps and signals, all il
their proper places ; but what good did they doB
for the old thief simply touched a spring, and ul
went one of the big marble flags of the pavemen ■
letting them in as easily as possible. Joe stood i \
the middle of the treasure-chamber, with his ey<
almost popping out of his head for wonderment
the store of gold and silver vessels, coin, and otht
precious things. It seemed to him that all tl
thieves in the world might come there daily an
steal and steal, and still there would be no end I
the riches of the place.

" Hurry ! hurry ! " said the thief, impatiently.

" I don't know what to choose," said Joe, st
staring about him.

" Oh, well, get down upon the ladder by whi<i
we entered, and I '11 hand you the things," sa
the thief, chuckling over Joe's silliness.

So Joe stood on the ladder under the trap-dot
and the thief began to pass down the articles whi;
were the least valuable, but which he thought go\
enough for such a stupid youth as Joe. J
received a few things, then, while the other's ba
was turned, he softly lowered the flag-stone an
made it fast on his side. The thief, perceivi;
that he was entrapped, beat on the stone a if
implored Joe to release him ; but Joe went
way chuckling ; for the funny part was, that t?
robber dared not raise his voice above a whisp.
for fear of rousing the guards outside the door.

Joe hid his booty in his pockets, all except ci:
silver cup. With this in hand, he boldly marchl
up to the first sentinel he met.

" Hush ! " he said. " Here 's your share
keeping quiet."

The man stared ; but supposing that Joe \va:ij
new-comer added to the band of robbers, he si
nothing, and allowed him to pass unmolest.
They were close to an old chimney, and hasy
rubbing his hand upon the soot, Joe made a mil
on the back of the fellow's uniform, that he rnijj
know him again if he had the chance. Thus f
went on, doing the same to each guard he itl
till he reached the gate, where he emptied
pocket in paying the porter. To each man vfl

877.]

CLEVER JOE.

24I

■ eceived his bribe he applied his blackened hand
s he passed ; and once out of the palace, he took
3 his heels and ran down the hill toward home.

Early as it was, the baker and his journeymen
ere already up and kneading bread.

Joe rushed in, wild with excitement.

"All of you come here," he cried, "and do
xactly as I say, and we shall make our fortunes."

" How ? What do you mean ? " they demanded,
rowding about him.

helped themselves to out of a neighboring field,
the procession rode solemnly up to the palace, and
Joe, giving a thundering rap on the knocker,
desired the porter to inform the king that the
renowned wizard Baricold Maxmaxfarogafarmax,
Duke of Shadows and Master of the Night, desired
the honor of an immediate audience.

The king, much impressed with this message,
made haste to receive the sage in his sleeping-
chamber, clapping on a crown over his night-cap,

CLEVER JOE MAKES HIMSELF KNOWN. (SEIi NEXT PAGE.)

«"Ask no questions, but do as I say," was all
' reply Joe would make ; but so earnest and
:ided was his air, that they obeyed, and did as
directed, without farther delay.
'What he directed was, that each man should
•:ss himself in some outlandish way at once,
me of them wrapped themselves in sheets, others
fur blankets ; two or three who had old masks
: them on, and Joe himself improvised a hasty
tume out of flour-bags, which, being yellow let-
id with red, had a very odd and fantastic appear-
:e. Then mounted on donkeys, which they

by way of grandeur, and sitting up on his pillows,
holding his scepter, which he always took to bed
with him, in his hand. Joe went at once to the
point.

" Your majesty," he said, bowing profoundly
before the monarch, " I am come to relieve you of
a great perplexity. No natural means will enable
you to discover the thieves who desolate your
treasury; but I, the great Baricold Maxmaxfaroga-
farmax, I can, and I will."

"Will you, really, Mr. Barifaxicomaxy ? " cried
the overjoyed king, leaping up and falling on the

242

CLEVER JOE.

[February,

neck of the baker's son. "Heaven indeed has
sent you. I have been at my wit's end about those
same thieves. Rid me of them, and take what
you will, even to a quarter of my kingdom."

" Your majesty." replied the sorcerer in a majes-
tic tone, "I don't want a quarter of your king-
dom. I would n't have it if I might. I want only
one single thing within your majesty's power to
grant, and that thing I must have, or the thieves
must go on thieving."

"And what is that?" inquired the king, trembling
with impatience."

"The hand of your beautiful daughter, the
Princess Gay," replied Joe, with a magnificent
bow.

" Well," said the king, who, much as he loved
the child, loved money better, and was delighted
that the magician's views took this sentimental
turn, "my daughter's hand, eh? Well, it is a
bargain. Rid me of the robbers, and you shall
have her and welcome."

"I must first trouble your majesty to put on
your clothes," observed Joe.

His majesty, who was usually something of a
dawdle, dressed with the speed of light.

"And now," observed Joe, "to the dungeons."

He led the way, and pausing before the door of
that in which he had been himself confined, thus
addressed the king:

"The poor youth you shut up here was inno-
cent. By my magic art I have removed him, and
have put in his place one of the real culprits who
have robbed your majesty."

"What!" cried the 'king, as the door opened;
" one of my most trusted servants ! Oh, you vil-
lain, you monster of ingratitude ! " and he hit him
such a rap with his scepter, that it echoed through
the vault. " Put chains on him at once ! " roared
the king. " I vowed that the rogue should feel
the weight of my indignation, and he shall."

It was done.

" And now to the Treasury," said Joe.

When that door was opened, inside sat thief
number two, with his pocket-handkerchief at his
eyes.

" How did you get here ? " demanded the king.

" Your majesty, I cannot tell," faltered the man.
" Perhaps I walked in my sleep. I used to as a
child ! "

" I '11 walk you ! " roared the irate king. " Pack
him off, guards, and serve him like the other
one."

It was done.

"Now," proceeded Joe, "your majesty will
please have all your guards, sentinels, and porters
called in and caused to defile before me."

In they came, amazed and wondering.

" By my magic art," said the wizard, " I have
set a black mark between the shoulders of all
among these men who are confederates of the
gang who have so long plundered your Royal
Treasury. Right about face, my men ; march for-
ward and let us see."

The guilty guards wriggled fearfully, and twisted
their heads nearly off in the attempt to catch a
glimpse of their own backs. All was in vain ;
there were the fatal marks, and each in turn was
marched off to prison.

By this time, Princess Gay, beautiful as the
morning, had joined the group. The sorcerer,
with his false beard, red-and-yellow robes, and
pointed cap, made her shudder with fear; and
when the king, taking her hand, led her forward
and said, " My daughter, behold your husband,"
she began to cry piteously.

"Oh, no, no!" she sobbed. "I cannot,-
indeed I cannot ! "

" Why not ? " demanded the king, knitting his
brows. " The only possible pretext for disobeying;
me would be a previous attachment, and I know
perfectly well there is nothing of that sort."

" Oh, yes, there is ! " cried the princess, at hei
wit's end for an excuse. " I have an attachment.
I love " (and she racked her brains to think 0!
some one), " I love — a boy who brought mf
some cream-cakes yesterday. Lovely cream-cakes
Never did I see their like. That boy is m; j
choice, and him only can I wed," — for, though-
Gay to herself, " he is miles off by this timej
probably ; and while they are searching for him,
can invent some other excuse."

" A baker's boy ! " began the king, in his deepes I
tones, but the magician plucked his sleeve.

"Your majesty, say nothing," he whispered^
" My art can compass even this miracle."

Saying this, he tore away his false beard, flun
his cloak of flour-bags aside, pulled the conic; j
cap from his head, and stood there in his props
person, rosy and youthful.

The princess gave a scream. The king gav I
another.

" Is it you ? " said Gay.

" Is it you ? " demanded the king.

" It is I," replied Joe, winking secretly at each.

The king joined their hands.

" Be happy, my children ! " said he.

And they were happy. Whether the prince
ever knew positively if her husband was wizard
was baker's son, I cannot tell. Sometimes si I
fancied him one, and sometimes the other, f
more money disappeared from the royal treasur
The king recovered his temper, and the court
merriment. Gay went on smiling, as befitted li
name ; and she and Joe agreed admirably.

CLEVER JOE.

243

■ ling was observable : on the anniversary of their key-hole, used to hear a clinking of forks and

edding-day, they always had a private frolic, plates, and smell a strange, delicious fragrance,

jc.iut up in their own rooms, with only Beltira to which nobody could explain. Some persisted that

I ait upon them. No one knew what was done on this fragrance was the smell of freshly-baked

■:. tese occasions ; but the courtiers, listening at the cream-tarts. I wonder if it was ?

• M » k^I

kraf

THE VALENTINE.

244

THE INDIAN GIRL AND HER MESSENGER-BIRD.

[February

THE INDIAN GIRL AND HER MESSENGER-BIRD.

By George W. Ranck.

Once upon a time, there was an Indian who
lived in a big woods on the banks of a beautiful
river, and he did nothing all day long but catch
fish and hunt wild deer. Well, this Indian had
two lovely little daughters, and he named one Sun-
beam, because she was so bright and cheerful, and
the other he called Starlight, because, he said, her
sweet eyes twinkled like the stars.

Sunbeam and Starlight were as gay as butterflies,

She could not play, for Starlight was gone, sh
knew not where ; so she took the bright feather
out of her hair, and sat down by the river and crie-
and cried for Starlight to come back to her. Bu
when her father told her that Starlight was gone t
the Spirit-land of love and beauty, and would b
happy for ever and ever, Sunbeam was comforted.
" Now," said she, " I know where darling Stai
light is, and 1 can kiss her and talk to her again.' 1

~^ #1$

SUNBEAM LETS THE GLAD

and as busy as bees, from morning till night. They
ran races under the shady trees, made bouquets of
wild flowers, swung on grape-vine swings, turned
berries and acorns into beads, and dressed their
glossy black hair with bright feathers that beautiful
birds had dropped. They loved each other so much,
and were so happy together, that they never knew
what trouble meant until, one day, Starlight got
very sick, and before the big moon came over the
tree-tops, the sweet Indian child had closed her
starry eyes in death, and rested for the last time
upon her soft little deer-skin bed. And now, for
the first time, Sunbeam's heart was full of grief.

Sunbeam had heard her people say that
birds were messengers from the Spirit-land,
she hunted through the woods until she found
little song-bird, that was too young to fly, f;
asleep in its nest. She carried it gently home, p
it into a cage, and watched over it and fed it tt
derly day after day until its wings grew strong a
it filled the woods with its music. Then she carri
it in her soft little hands to Starlight's grave ; a
after she had loaded it with kisses and messages
love for Starlight, she told it never to cease
sweetest song or fold its shining wings until it b
flown to the Spirit-land. She let it go, and t

,3 7 7-]

FESTINA LENTE.

245

lad bird, as it rose above the tall green trees, Then Sunbeam ran swiftly over the soft grass

oured forth a song more joyful than any that to" her father, and told him, with a bright smile

unbeam had ever heard. Higher and higher it and a light heart, that she had talked with dear

ew, and sweeter and sweeter grew its song, until Starlight, and had kissed her sweet rosy mouth

last both its form and its music were lost in again ; and Sunbeam was once more her father's

le floating summer clouds. bright and happy little Indian girl.

FESTINA LENTE.

By Thomas Hughes,

Author of "Tom Brown's Schooldays," etc., etc.

A SUMMONS from St. NICHOLAS ! One of those
:sh and sincere voices, which seem to me to be
ry truly characteristic of the New World, comes
ross the three thousand miles of sea rolling and
,.ping under these wild south winds. It reminds
: of certain good intentions of mine, of pledges
If given years ago, and never even half re-
;med. It asks, not indeed for payment in full,
t for some small installment, some acknowledg-
mt of the debt, which will serve to prevent the
tute of limitations from running. It tells me of
rowd of eager and bright young listeners, who
nk I may have some word to say to them which
y want to hear, — an eager, bright young crowd
American boys, from nine to eighteen years of
, — and asks " if I can have the heart to refuse "
say it.

4ot I, indeed ! For I never had the heart to

tse anything to such applicants. But how to

eem my pledge — what word to say to such an

ience — how to reach the hearts of ''the youth

t own the coming years" in a land which is not

own, though I can scarcely look on it as a

. ign land, — there lies the puzzle.

'he sight of an ordinary crowd, we are told, is

ll England, at least — always a sad one, if you

i note of the expression of the faces in repose ;

lgh it may be inspiring enough when any

■tig wave of feeling is passing through or over

n. I should say, from my own experience, that

;' ithetic " rather than "melancholy" is the true

i, even for a grown-up crowd, and it most cer-

ly is with a crowd of boys. Who can help

g roused and lifted out of the humdrum jog-

of the daily life of middle age when he gets in

h with them — lifted, though it may be only for

a short hour or so, by the inspiring contact of over-
flowing health, and joy and hope, into the breezy,
buoyant atmosphere of early morning?

When all the world is young, lads,

And all the trees are green,
With every goose a swan, lads,

And every lass a queen, —
Then heigh for boot and horse, lads,

And round the world away !
Yuung blood must have its course, lads,

And every dog his day.

Yes, pathetic is the true word. For even while
looking on the young faces, and feeling the pulse
and inspiration of the dawn of life down to one's
finger ends, thoughts of another kind will crowd
up into the mind, — " thoughts that do often lie too
deep for tears," — of beginnings cut short, of projects
abandoned, of designs marred, of expectations un-
fulfilled.

But fair, and softly ! How soon one's pen runs
away with one ! These are not the words I meant
to say, or the thoughts I meant to suggest, to you,
the young readers of St. Nicholas. You will
touch the pathetic side of life, all of you, soon
enough. Why should I thrust it on you before the
appointed hour ?

Meantime I say, revel in the dawn. Rejoice in
your young strength and life ; aim high, and build
your castles like brave young architects, only taking
care to dig the foundations deep, and to lay them
with care and patience. Whether you will ever be
able to build on them such brave and lofty towers
and halls as you dream of now, matters compara-
tively little to you or your country. A thousand
accidents and chances will determine in the coming
years what the superstructure shall be, — accidents

246

FESTINA LENTE.

[Februak 1

and chances we call them for want of a better
name, — which you cannot control in the outset,
but which will be controlled and settled for you.

What materials you will have to work with who
can say ? To one clay, to another wood, to another
marble, to another jewels and precious stones, will
be served out in the great workshop of the world..
You cannot make your choice ; it will be made for
you. But this you can and may do, and should be
doing now : You can so prepare the ground and
the foundations, that whatever material shall come
to your hand hereafter, shall surely be made the
most of, and used in the best way ; so that whether
you have to build marble palaces, or brick houses,
or log huts, the work shall be faithful and strong,
and fit to stand the stress of the wildest weather,
and the wear and tear of time.

What are these foundations but the principles
and habits which underlie the character of the
man, and which can only be laid to good purpose
.by the boy ? Truthfulness, self-control, simplicity,
obedience, — these are the great corner-stones, to
be welded and bound together by the cement of
patience. " If I had only one word to speak to my
boys," said one of the wisest and best educators of
our time, ''it should be Patience, Patience, Patience,
over and over again." The world is getting into
such a feverish hurry, and we are going so fast,
that we are all in danger of missing the best things
in life — the common sights and sounds which lie by
the way-side on every stage of the journey, and no-
where in greater profusion than on the first stage.
This is our trouble, and likely to be more and more
the trouble of our children.

But, happily for us, our boys are the least affected
by the disease of any section of society. The upper-
school boy, unless he is a mere shiftless ne'er-do-
well (a very small section of any community), is,
as a rule, more than content with his daily life ;
he is rejoicing and glorying in it. And his daily
life repays him with interest. He stands there, at
seventeen or eighteen, on the verge of manhood, —
a boy still in heart, full of enthusiasms and aspira-
tions, but with an intellect and body patiently
and carefully trained, looking hopefully to the next
step in life, but unwilling to hurry- it, — the best
poised and most equally developed human creature,
take him all round, that our life can show. He has
not sold his birthright, and the grand morning
hours of life, when boyhood is maturing, have
passed slowly over him, leaving behind them a
bouquet and fragrance which will sweeten the com-
ing years, and a reserve of strength for the labor
and heat of the approaching midday.

"Ah, your boy keeps his birthright, and ours
sells it for a very poor mess of pottage," writes
one American friend to me ; while another says,

"You, in England, have a proverb, 'Boys will b
boys ; ' ours should run just the other way, ' Boji
wont be boys,' — I wish to heaven they would, an
no one would grudge paying for broken glass an
crockery."

" Have you had any American boys under you ?
I asked of one of the ablest English masters, wh
has had great experience at two of our best publ
schools.

" Yes," he said, " I have had several as pupil
and have known a good many more ; and nice
clever fellows they were. Very like our own bov
too, but older of their age, as a rule."

"Ah, you found it so!" I said. "I suppo.
they did n't care so much for games. Is that wh
you mean ? "

" Well, partly so ; but not exactly. They seemt
rather to endure than to enjoy their lives, not on
in the playing-fields, but in the schools. The
were several promising cricketers, for instanc
amongst them ; but they did n't work at it as mc
of our boys do, or get the same zest out of
And it was much the same with their school-wot
They did it because they were sent there to do
and did n't care to be left behind. But th
could n't throw themselves into the life with a
enthusiasm, and so lost much of the pleasure
well as the profit, of it."

" But might n't that come from early associatic
and training ? Our boys have a world of their oi
which is sufficient for them. To be captain of t
school, or of the eleven, or of bigside football
of the boats, is to be famous in that little wo
which they have heard their big brothers talk
ever since they were breeched. But an Americ
boy has not been reared in the traditions, and
can't care so much for our boy's world. He fe
like an outsider at an English school."

" Possibly. At any rate, it's a great loss, £
would hinder me from sending over a boy of m
if I were an American."

" What ! Not even to learn to write Greek ;
Latin verses ? I fancy that art is ignored on
other side, and you know you think in your set
soul that life must be a poor thing to a man v
can't amuse himself in a leisure half-hour by tu
ing the last popular song into iambics, or lo
and shorts."

" Well, so be it. Great, I own, are iamb
and great are longs and shorts ; but you may
too much for them, and the Yankee boy,
afraid, buys our culture too dear. It does n't sat)
him. It is n't what he wants. Over here he i
willing to remain a boy ; very likely, as you
because he feels like an outsider in our boy's wcj
Probably at home he would find something ans'!
ing to it, in which he could let himself out, and

■

7-1

A TALK ABOUT CANARIES.

247

iisfied, without wanting to discount life, and be a
in before his time."

How is it, my boys ? Are my correspondents
d friends right ? Are you hurrying up your own
as, and therefore, so far as you can, spoiling the
: of your country ? Well, if so, the only word I
ve to say to you (like my friend above referred

is — patience, patience, patience ! But I am a
anger, and know little of your needs or your
cpes. Let me cite, then, one who has the best
1 ht to speak to you, and whose words ought to

straight to the heart of every American boy.
ke down your Lowell, and look out a little poem
>t one of his best in workmanship, but a gem
[spirit and motive) called "Hebe." The gods'
ssenger descends to earth, bearing in her hands
iir choicest gift, the cup brimming with nectar —

piration, and solace, and strength — for the lip

n 1

of him whom the gods approve. The youth rushes
to meet her — will snatch the cup from her hand.
In his haste it is broken, and the precious contents
spilled on the ground.

" O spendthrift haste ! await the gods :

Their nectar crowns the lips of Patience ;
Haste scatters on unthankful sods

The immortal gift in vain libations.
Coy Hebe flies from those that woo.

And shuns the hand would seize upon her ;
Follow thy life, and she shall sue

To pour for thee the cup of honor."

Yes, follow your lives, and you will control them ;
get ahead of them, and they will slip from under
your hand. You are bred with a strong faith in
your country and her destiny ; justify that faith
then, and remember that "he that believeth shall
not make haste."

:■.:
■j
i

■
tal

■a t
ft

Oil!

111!

rb)

STARS AND DAISIES.

By Louis Munson.

The stars are tiny daisies high,
Opening and shutting in the sky ;
While daisies are the stars below,
Twinkling and sparkling as they grow.

The star-buds blossom in the night,
And love the moon's calm, tender light ;
But daisies bloom out in the day,
And watch the strong sun on his way.

A TALK ABOUT CANARIES.

By Ernest Ingersoll.

' is so long ago, that now we do not know just
1 the canary-bird first began to be a favorite
-bird in Europe, but it was some time in the
:eenth century. Its native land is Southern
:a and some of the islands off its Atlantic
:, including Ascension. Cape de Verde, and
Helena, where Napoleon Bonaparte was im-
ned. It is curious that it should have received

:,.

,..,

its name from the Canary Islands, which are also
in that part of the world, for it is said to have
been unknown there until some tame ones escaped
to the shore from an Italian ship which was wrecked
near by. Since then "Canaries" have become
abundant on those islands.

The plumage of the wild male bird varies from
greenish-yellow on the throat and breast, to golden-

248

A TALK ABOUT CANARIES.

[Februaf

yellow lower down ; the sides and thighs are dirty
white ; the top of the head and back brownish-
ash, streaked with brown ; the wing-feathers are
brown-black, with pale edges. The color of the
female is more dingy and indistinct. It builds its
nest in thick bushes, lays from four to six pale-
blue eggs, and hatches five or six broods in a sea^
son, the first appearing in March. Its habits are
very much like those of our yellow thistle-bird, or

THE WILD CANARY.

goldfinch. This is a very different bird, you will
notice, from our larger, clear-yellow cage-bird ; yet
the one familiar to us in the United States is per-
haps nearer the original form than the majority
of the thirty or forty known varieties of the canary
which have been produced by the skill of per-
sons accustomed to rearing them, many of which
greatly differ from the ordinary bird not only in
shape, as you see displayed in the group of
" fancy" varieties on the next page, but also in the
tints of their coats, and the character and arrange-
ment of the markings.

The bird in the upper right-hand corner of the
picture is known as the " Manchester coppy," from
the city of Manchester, England, where it orig-
inated ; the hooded, or crested, one under it is a
" Norwich buff-crested fancy," named after Nor-
wich, England ; the big-shouldered one at the left
is a favorite in Scotland, under the name of the
"Glasgow don ; " but the " Belgian " variety in the
center of the group, which is so slender that it can
almost pass through a finger-ring, is the highest
prized and most delicate of all. It is cultivated
chiefly in Belgium.

The common canary is known throughout the
civilized world, and is so common as to be cheap
in all bird-stores ; but many of the varieties are
rare, and very expensive; these varieties are mostly
cultivated in England, however, where the song
of a canary is not so much valued as its elegant

shape or brilliant color. Germany is the grc
center whence the world is supplied with singin
birds, and in Germany the business of raising t]
birds and getting them ready to send abroad
chiefly cai ied on in the villages among the Hai
Mountains if Hanover. The people there a
miners and c-~ le-drovers, but, being poor, almc
every family d^ otes its spare time to rearir
canaries and making the little wooden cag
in which they arc carried to the distant ra
way station or sea ort. The houses are sma
but one corner of ti. ■ principal room is sa
arated from the rest b : a light partition, ai
given to the birds for t»..'r own use, whe
in cups, boxes, and gourd-shells, they bu
their nests and hatch their eggs, secure frc
all harm. When the breeding season is ov
all the young birds are taken to Bremen
Hamburg, to be sent across the ocean
England, America, or away round to In(
and China. These voyages are made only
the winter, however, because it was found tl
in summer traveling the birds lost their vok
and plumage ; but that season is so cold a
stormy that usually from a quarter to a half
the cargo perishes before reaching our sho
So many birds are sent, nevertheless, that pn
ably twenty-five thousand came to New York al 1
last year from Europe. These are distribul
through a large number of bird-shops in the ci
and the deafening chorus which is kept up fn
dawn till dark by a hundred or two birds singi
at the top of their voices in a single room, add
to the din of a small menagerie of other anim<
is something surprising to one the first time
enters.

The bird-shops are always a curious sight, ;
some curious people keep them, — usually kin
old Germans, who have become so used to ha
ling tenderly the delicate little creatures, that i
doubtful whether they could be harsh and rot
if they tried.

And this is just one of the beautiful things ab
having a canary in the house, that it is all
time preaching us a cheery little sermon. It si
to us, "Be happy, be happy, be happy! K
cool, keep cool, keep cool ! Be contented, be g
tie, be pure, be true, be trustful ! " And it set:
a beautiful example every hour. Why, a cana
good-nature is something wonderful ! Next t
you' are " blue," go and listen to his melody b
bling up out of his throat, the notes tumb
head over heels out of his mouth as though t
could n't get out fast enough to tell how gay|
feels, — and see if you don't catch his jollity
begin to whistle and sing, too, before you knoi
He does n't bother himself if his breakfast or 1

T-)

A TALK ABOUT CANARIES.

249

ate! Not he. He says, "Oh! well, I 'spect
1 Hie has something bigger than I am to look
;r ; I '11 put in the time singing" — and at it he
;s, calling so loud and strong that Nellie soon
irs him, and rewards him with fresh seed. He
1 peace-maker, too. Try to quarrel with your
ither some day. If you are going to ''fight it
," you must put the bird away ; he will drown
ir angriest words with his music, until you both
and laugh at the little chap, who is scolding
lself hoarse. And then what sweet pictures
Id themselves about his cage in the still sum-
;r afternoons, as you sit with your work in the
nn window where the scent of the rose and
!.Mmbine comes to you upon the lightest of
rezes, and the golden little minstrel tunes his
;s low and sweet, answered by the fine trill of

fold the little trouble he costs, by the sunshine
he brings into the house, and by the gentle, loving
care for all sweet and tender things which he
teaches us day by day.

If we keep a canary, of course we want it always

SOME FANCY VARIETIES OF THE CANARY.

hippy whispering to his mate in the lilac-
and the loving talk of pretty warblers which
annot see, but only hear in the tall shade-
of the garden ! Our Pet pays us a hundred-
OL. IV.— 17.

to be just so healthy and happy; but whether it is so
or not, will depend almost entirely on the care we
take of it; and it is quite useless — or rather very
wrong — for us to undertake for our pleasure the

250

A TALK ABOUT CANARIES.

[Febrl

charge of a little prisoner, even though only a
bird, unless we are prepared to spend time and
labor enough to make its captivity just as pleasant
as possible. When even decently attended to, a
canary probably does not feel its confinement ; and
there is no doubt that if it is properly cared for, it
has not one hour of sadness all day long.

First as to the cage : It should be suited to the
birds which are to inhabit it, setting off their
attractions. Airiness, space, light and ease of
cleaning, should be the main recommendations,
both for our interest and that of the birds. In
general, the plainer and simpler a cage is, the
better. Fantastic shapes, — Swiss cottages, Chi-
nese pagodas, and the like, — dangling with orna-
ments and sparkling with points and spangles, are
an abomination ; they run away with our money,
and hide the little fairy within. The bird itself is
the first one to discover the bright points, and
peck at the glittering spangles, until it poisons or
chokes itself to death in trying to eat them ; and
lastly, the many corners and crinkles are just so
many lodging-places for vermin and dirt. This
last is the most serious objection of all, for clean-
liness — absolute purity — is essential to every cana-
ry's health and happiness. A plain, simple cage is
therefore the best, and usually the cheapest. But
it is better to go to a little greater expense in get-
ting the right article at first, even if you have to
have it made to order, than to waste money and
risk your birds by experimenting with unsuitable
cages. Wooden cages are to be avoided also,
because, if pretty, they cost high, but more es-
pecially because it is so difficult to cleanse them.
The best are the simple, square, German, metal-
lic-enameled cages, — prettiest, lightest to carry,
most economical in the end, airy and commodious.
The disadvantage is, that it is not easy to get them
in this country, where they are rather costly.

The color is a matter of taste, but white, or a
combination of white and green, is perhaps most
pleasing and best adapted to the colors of most
birds ; light chocolate is good also. In these Ger-
man cages the color is burnt into the wires, and
not painted on where Pet can peck it off and make
himself sick. Brass cages are bad also, because
the poisonous green rust or verdigris, which is
likely to collect upon them, is sure to be eaten by
the bird. Your cage must allow of being taken
apart, for thus only can it be thoroughly cleaned.
The door should be sufficiently large to admit a
good-sized bathing tray. As to food and drinking
vessels, the conical " fountains " for seeds are to be
avoided ; they become foul. Pet can only get at
the top seeds, and so starves in the midst of seem-
ing abundance. Tin cups rust, and are otherwise
bad, so that the only proper arrangement are cups

of glass or porcelain, square or circular, two in<
deep by one across. The perches should be p
round sticks, unvarnished, and no two of the si
thickness ; if the cage is a large one, a swim
enameled metal or polished wood is a source
endless amusement to the occupant.

A CAGE WITH LACE BAG FOR CATCHING SEED.

Pet scatters seed-husks with a liberal bill in (
direction through the wires of his cage, and
sometimes becomes so annoying as to preve
keeping him near us in the parlor or library, i
ingenious person has devised a cover to catch
crumbs. A strip, either of thin gauze, or of
is called "wash-illusion" lace, wide enough
loosely about the cage, when its edges are sew
lapped together, is gathered in a bunch lik
neck of an old-fashioned work-bag, and att;
six inches above the top of the cage, and al
inches below it, where it is tied with a ri
Whenever the cage is cleaned the bottom o
lace bag or curtain is untied and the seed-
shaken out. If you feel that your bird has a
tie air by this arrangement, you might susper
lace from the wires about the middle of the
the upper half of which is thus left open, pucl
and tying the covering below as in the other

In aviaries much trouble is often caused h)
eating the seed intended for the birds, and
will even climb down the rope by which a
is hung, if they can get into it no other w;
fond are they of the hemp and rape. Tin,
engraving shows how this thieving may hi
vented by passing the cord through a disk of
pasteboard, tin, or glass, which will sway wi
weight of the mouse and afford him no chaj
hold on to its smooth surface.

■7-1

A TALK ABOUT CANARIES.

251

'Another matter is where you put your cage or

lary. The place should be neither too hot, nor

cold, nor in drafts. In summer, especially at

time of nesting, a high sunny window, out of

reach of cats, and where cooling breezes blow

iut him all day, will bring out Pet's gayest songs

[warm into their richest beauty the golden hues

lis plumage. In winter a window would be the

■st possible place for him, for there he is exposed

he dozen steady drafts of cold air which inces-

tly pour in through the crevices in sashes and

es. In cold weather the best place for birds is

wall of a dwelling-room on which the sun shines.

:re their spirits are kept gay by human compan-

hip, and, being always in sight, their supply of

1 and water is less likely to be forgotten. Stove-

:, however, and particularly the presence of gas

(he room, is bad for canaries, and to avoid the
effects of the last, which makes the air near the
ng insufferably hot, causing the canary to molt
of season, to droop, etc., a good plan is to
: the cage suspended from a pulley, and in the
ing to lower it to within four feet or so of the
. An even temperature, summer and winter,
it, if possible, to be secured for the birds. At
t, if the room is to become cold, the cage
Id be wrapped in a woolen shawl, or, at least,
aick paper, leaving an air-hole. It is always
,r, where possible, to have a little room devoted
e birds alone, but this, of course, is only prac-
4e where you have plenty of space and money,
iw, having your pet comfortably and prettily
'sd, comes the duty of his daily care. I say
for if we undertake to keep an innocent
ure in captivity, we are bound to make its life
'-as joyous as we can. A canary will manage
e for a long time, and even be cheerful now
''hen, surrounded by filth and half starved, for
s a wonderfully buoyant disposition ; but it
tot be happy, and no person has a right to
limself a bird-lover, or even fancier, who will
Miis canaries to suffer from neglect.
s first essential is cleanliness, — scrupulous
ess all the time. The cage must be thor-
y cleansed every morning, or every other
.ng, in all parts, and care should be taken
ihe seed is free from dirt, the water pure,
he sand on the floor of the cage well cleaned
:ing previously boiled in water. The corn-
nd wooden parts should be particularly
1 at, the perches well scraped, and twice a
: plunged in boiling water to kill any of those
the red mites, that may have got there. Pet
have a bath every day in a sufficiently large
at it will not do to let him bathe whenever he
5, and hence the water must not be left in
ge after he has once finished. He jnust not

lack a good supply of seed and plenty of the purest
drinking-water. A bird is so tirelessly active and so
warm-blooded that it uses up its heat and strength
a great deal faster than any other animal. It there-
fore needs constant nourishment, and a simple
morning or evening meal will not do at all; it must
have seed all the time, and in return will reward
you by songs of thanksgiving without end. A
starved bird not only will not sing, but his coat
loses its plumpness and gloss, his manner becomes
listless, and some morning you find him dead and
stiff in the bottom of his cage.

This introduces the subject of food. Canary-
seed is their bread and butter — the wild food of
their native land. They can hardly live without
this, but they need a variety — not made up of rich
biscuit, cake, bread and butter, or the like, which
will soon ruin a bird's delicate digestion — but of the
seeds and green parts of many other plants, such as

*,t

m
k

*
1
i«

-.'■

A DISCONCERTED HOUSE.

hemp, rape, millet, linseed and poppy, and the
crushed seeds of many garden vegetables, mixed
with the canary-seed, or given separately. Canary
and rape seed mixed is called "black-and-white
bird-seed." The .seeds of many of our road-side
weeds, — chickweed, plantain, feathery heads of
grass, — and fresh, tender young leaves of water-
cress, plantain, lettuce and cabbage are appreci-
ated ; while a perfectly ripe strawberry or pieces of
mellow sweet apples and pears are dainties to a
canary. Plums, cherries, stone-fruits, and rinds are
objectionable for the acid they contain. The green
food given should be perfectly fresh, and if you live
in the city a good plan is to plant a quantity of
bird-seed in saucers of earth, and when the canary,
hemp, rape, or millet is sufficiently grown to look
green at the top, pull it up, roots and all, and
throw it into the cage. You shall see how quickly
your pets will seize it ! These are so tough that a

252

A TALK ABOUT CANARIES.

[Febru^I

canary needs still harder substances to aid his diges-
tion, and will naturally resort to the sand in the
bottom of the cage ; you must therefore choose
your sand carefully— sea-sand is the best, because
saltish — and wash it clean. The bird needs lime
also, out of which to build the shells of its eggs;
supply this want with hens' egg-shells, except dur-
ing the nesting season. Daily and regularly fed
with plenty of seed, and saved from devouring
"jim-cracks" in the shape of meat and other un-

stroy his health, or we have been over-indulgent i
injured his stomach with rich food, or else we h:
allowed him to associate with some diseased
and so catch the malady. It is always one of th
three causes that kills our birds, — leaving accide
and old age out of the question, — and all three
these we can avoid.

The symptoms by which you can tell whet!
or not your canary is in the enjoyment of hes
are : The general appearance of his plumage,

THE CANARY THAT ALWAYS CAME BACK.

wholesome things, there is no harm in once in a
while allowing Pet a taste of hard-boiled egg, or a
lump of sugar, but such sweets must be sparingly
supplied. If you are watchful, you will soon come
to know what effect certain food has upon your
bird, and to understand that what he can eat at one
season is not good for him at another — when molt-
ing, for example.

It is disagreeable to have anything to say about
disease in such dear little objects as our birds ; but,
unfortunately, they sometimes fall sick, yet may
occasionally become mopish and ill for a few days
in spite of all we can do ; but permanent disease is
always due to some neglect on our part. Either
we have allowed his cage to be so dirty as to de-

color of his eyes, beak and legs, and last, thj
not least, his liveliness or his lack of it. A 1
health is usually most delicate at the tiinl
the yearly renewal of the coat of feather!
"molting," which in the Northern States b|
in August, or earlier in hot weather. Too
molting should be checked by removal ol
bird to a cooler room and by frequent bathil
not by medicine. Unless the time is very
out of the way, however, it is generally best I
nature have its own course, only guarding aj|
chills ; for if Pet catches cold at this time, hif
dead bird ! Strong light — but not the direcl
of the sun — is of the utmost importance \
deepening the colors of the new feathers.

'7-1

A TALK ABOUT CANARIES.

253

*s®ii

siting, your bird should have plenty of water
ib drinking and bathing; and if he seems to suffer
im having a skin so tough that the growing
ll liills will not push through readily, anoint the sore
rts with a brush dipped in slightly warm castor-
. A generous diet, some stimulant in the drink-
j-water, like a rusty nail or an addition of a trifle
ifji. brandy or sherry wine, an extra allowance of
seed, and unusual attention on
jr part, will help your favorite
ough this trying season.
Sometimes the feet and legs
:ome tender, sore, and scaly.
is is caused by foul perches ;
1 the treatment is to hold the
t frequently in warmish water,
netimes adding a trifle of ar-
a to it, and to anoint them
h oil. Inflammation in vari-
parts of the body, hoarseness
he voice, and dizziness are not
:ommon complaints ; but to
5 full instruction about half of
se troublesome diseases would
uire a whole number of St.
iIHOLAS ; and where care and
iimon sense do not prevent or
e them, there are books to be
isulted on the subject, especially those published
England. After all, " an ounce of prevention is
th a pound of cure," and the tender care which
her neglects nor frightens the canary is worth
■hole college of doctors. So much for their
ily troubles.

anaries show a great aptitude for tricks, some-

:s learning to do many amusing and difficult

gs, and also to sing tunes very well. They

1 come to know their masters or mistresses,

1 will often follow them about. I "mind," as

cotch girl would say, a little lassie who had a

bird so tame that in pleasant weather she used

y day to open the window and let it go out of

isu lihouse, for it would always return at evening,

/ling on the window-panes to be let in, if the

i happened to be closed. An English gentle-

oll i had a canary for several years which never

kept in a cage, and in summer was always

g out to the gate or down the road to meet its

:er, perching on his finger, nestling in his

[t tm, or, best of all, clinging in his hair, where

is completely happy ; at the same time only

• other person in the house would it allow to

lit, resenting any attempt at familiarity with

fiercest anger. At last, however, this bold

fellow got bewildered in a sudden dense fog,

times join the families of wild birds ; but their
house-bred constitutions can hardly stand the cold
of winter, and escaped birds probably all perish
before spring. They are very affectionate little
creatures, always prefer companions, and will make
friends even with their natural enemies. A fan-
cier in London had a cat which, with her kittens,
would eat out of the canaries' dish in the bird-

OLD TRAY

HIS LITTLE FRIEND.

,v t was lost. Canaries can live out-of-doors
1,(11 I :limate very well in the summer, and some-

room, and never think of harming them, while
the birds seemed to enjoy Tabby's society. The
picture of the bird in the dog's mouth tells a true
story of a canary in France which really would go
into Old Tray's open mouth, and sit there in per-
fect security ; reminding us of the birds which
venture into the horrid jaws of the crocodiles dozing
on the banks of the Nile, finding some kind of
food there, and never being harmed by the lazy
reptiles.

On the other hand, canaries are easily fright-
ened. I knew of one which was thrown into con-
vulsions and died simply because a gentleman
placed his white hat suddenly near the cage.
What must have been the terror of that poor bird
I saw in Thirty-fifth street. New York, the other
day ! Its cage had been placed close up against
the broad pane of a front window, outside of which
there was a little balcony. A large cat saw it.
and thought he had a fine prize ; so he crept
stealthily across the balcony until he thought he
was near enough, when he made a spring, and to
his surprise pounced hard against the strong plate-
glass, which evidently he had not seen in his
way — it was so clear: It was amusing to watch
the cat sneak away, abashed, and sore-headed, but
the canary was terribly shocked. There is always
danger from cats in hanging cages out-of-doors,
and also danger from small hawks and butcher-

254

THE FIRST PARTY.

[Febru^

birds, which frequently drag Pet through the wires
and devour him.

To tame birds and to train them to perform
tricks are two very different things. Any one may
do the first by constant, quiet kindness, endless
attention, and patience. Accustom the bird to
your presence, and let it understand that, what-
ever you do about it, nothing is intended for its
terror or harm. This learned, teaching it to perch
on your finger, or come to your whistle and call, is
only a matter of time and gentle patience. Some
odd tricks may be taught them if they are 'cute, —
for different birds differ very greatly in their ability

to learn, as well as in their natural talents a
dispositions, — but the astonishing exploits of so:
troupes of ''performing birds" which are exh
ited about the country are all taught to them b
terribly cruel course of lessons, and you ought ;
to make your Pet emulate these performances.

The Germans often teach young birds tunes a
the songs of other birds ; but the operation i:
slow and tedious one, and the result not very sa
factory. It seems to me that our highest v.
should be to perfect all that is natural to a can,"
and not try to make him something else than
is, or was intended to be.

THE FIRST PARTY.

By Josephine Pollard.

MISS Annabel McCarty

Was invited to a party,
Your company from four to ten," the invitation said;

And the maiden was delighted

To think she was invited ,

To sit up till the hour when the big folks went to bed.

The crazy little midget

Ran and told the news to Bridget,

Who clapped her hands, and danced a jig, to Annabel's delight,
And said, with accents hearty,
" 'T will be the swatest party

If ye 're there yerself, me darlint ! I wish it was to-night ! "

The great display of frilling

Was positively killing !
And, oh, the little booties ! and the lovely sash so wide

And the gloves so very cunning !

She was altogether '•stunning,"
And the whole McCarty family regarded her with pride.

They gave minute directions,
With copious interjections

Of " Sit up straight ! " and "Don't do this, or that ! —
But, what with their caressing,
And the agony of dressing,

Miss Annabel McCarty did n't hear a single word.

t would be absurd !

There was music, there was dancing,
And the sight was most entrancing,
As if fairy-land, and floral band, wer; holding jubilee ;

PATTIKIN S HOUSE.

255

There was laughing, there was pouting ;
There was singing, there was shouting ;
And old and young together made a carnival of glee.

Miss Annabel McCarty

Was the youngest at the party,
And every one remarked that she was beautifully drest ;

Like a doll she sat demurely

On the sofa, thinking surely
It would never do for her to run and frolic with the rest.

The noise kept growing louder ;

The naughty boys would crowd her ;
I think you 're very rude indeed ! " the little lady said ;

And then, without a warning,

Her home instructions scorning,
She screamed: "I want my supper! — and I want to go to bed!"

Now big folks, who are older,

Need not laugh at her, nor scold her,
For doubtless, if the truth were known, we 've often felt inclined

To leave the ball, or party,

As did Annabel McCarty,
But we had n't half her courage, and we could n't speak our mind !

PATTIKIN'S HOUSE.

By Joy Allison.

Introduction.

ITIKIN had a way of calling her home " my
," as if she were the owner of, the Parsonage,
II that was in it. Ask her where she lived,
le would say, " Up to my house." Ask where
er hat, when she was found out bareheaded
\ sun, and she would point her cunning,
ed finger and say, "In my house." So we
oved Pattikin, and thought her baby ways
.'insome and sweet, came to call the old red
that sheltered us " Pattikin's house." I
rau will be pleased with the story of some of
od times we had there.

Chapter I.

BLACKBERRYING.

! minister tipped the sugar-bowl toward him,
out a lump and put it into Pattikin's mouth,

and then leaned his elbow on the table, and his
head on his hand, reflectively.

" We must economize ! " said he.

" Now, father," said his wife, " that makes three
lumps of sugar you 've given Pattikin since we sat
down to supper, and it is n't good for her. Besides
that, the firkin's empty."

•' Out of sugar again, are we ! Why, I thought

it was only a week ago But never mind !

We may as well begin to economize there as any-
where, perhaps. We can go without' sugar."

."Oh no, father!" said Thirza, and Tilda and
Pattikin, "we can't!" And. "Oh no. father, —
not go without any sugar ! " was echoed by Seth,
Samuel, Simon and Sandy.

" We might do with less, I suppose," said their
mother.

" Look here ! " said the minister, — and he took
his wallet out of his pocket, and inverted it over
his plate and shook it well. From one of the com-

256

PATTIKIN S HOUSE.

[Februa.1

partments a tiny, shining half-dime fell, and jingled
down on the plate. ' ' That five-cents is a happy
surprise to me ! I thought there was absolutely
nothing there," said he. "What do you think
about the sugar, and economizing, now ? "

" I think we 'd better have begun a little sooner,"
said his wife.

" Pho ! you '11 get more money right off! " said
Pattikin. " You always do. We could n't go 'thout
no sugar in our tea."

She might have been rewarded for her hopeful
and encouraging view of the matter with another
lump, if her mother had not seized upon the bowl
and carried it off, and shut it up in the cupboard.

" So much must be kept sacredly for company
and the baby." said she, " if we are really to have
no more at present."

" But you don't mean it, father?" said Thirza.

" I don't see but I must mean it, unless we have
a windfall or a wedding."

" Oh, I hate economizing ! " said Seth, in a tone
of great disgust. "I'd a great deal rather earn
money."

" Well, young man, suppose you do earn some,
for a change," said his father.

" I could, if you 'd let me," said Seth. " Milan
Straw says blackberries are thicker than spatter up
in Johonnet's Acre."

" And they 're selling for ninepence a quart in
Chester," said Simon.

" And you had rather have sugar than the black-
berries ? " said his father. " I am not so sure I had."

" I 'd rather have some sugar and some black-
berries," said Seth.

" Well, you can have Old Gray and go there
blackberrying to-morrow morning, as early as you
please ; and in the afternoon you may go to Ches-
ter and sell them. And there 's a dollar's worth of
sugar, and a half-bushel (or less) of blackberries
besides, for you, mother, and not a cent to pay."

"Oh, father, don't go to counting the chickens
before they are hatched ! " said Thirza. " We
sha' n't have good luck if you do."

"A fig for luck, and a fortune for faithful, per-
severing work." said the minister, gayly. "That
pony should be caught to-night, children, if you
are to get an early start."

" May we all go with you to the pasture, father?"
asked Tilda.

" To be sure ! The more the merrier, if mother
does n't need you ! "

"We'll do our work after we get home. It's
'yes,' is n't it, mother? That's good!" — and
away they flew from the table in search of hats and
bonnets.

" Suppose we all go ! " said the minister to his
wife, while he stood waiting. " Could n't you ? "

"What, blackberrying? And take the"bab|
No, indeed ! But I hope they will get some. y[
might go with them. The girls will want to g
and Pattikin 's too little to be trusted with the:
unless you do."

" Oh yes ! " put in Pattikin, who stood bonnetl
already at her father's elbow. " I must go. I neJ
went blackberryin' 'n all my life."

" We '11 see," said the minister.

It was a charming walk to the pasture ; and
was n't the least trouble to catch the pony. T
minister had put some gray beans into a two-qu
measure, and when he shook the beans about
the measure, the gray pony heard and came
ning to them, and as her nose went down into
measure the bridle went over her head. T
was n't cheating, for she liked gray beans, and
minister let her eat them all up. It was, in fai
bargain, and the pony understood perfectly
she was being bridled for work ; but still she wan
the beans.

" Now, if anybody wants to ride home on
gray pony, let them be on hand ! " said the n
ister.

They were all on hand already, but they crow
up a little nearer and called out, "I do!"—
do ! " — " I do ! " to show that they were on h
and were lifted one by one to the gray pony's b
and set in a row from her head to her tail. P
kin, being the least of the children, sat nearest
head, and held on by the mane with both h;
Her father also held her by one foot, as he wa
along beside her. Thirza held on to Tilda
Tilda held on to Simon, and the boys all
together, with their knees pressed hard againsl
pony's sides, and so they reached home in safe

Then they all worked like bees to get everytj
ready for an early start. The empty sugar- fj
was packed with cold beef, johnny-cake, and pij
for their luncheon ; and baskets, pails, and di
were collected, and all the chores done up
then they went early to bed, as Pattikin said
morning would come quicker."

I do not know by what arguments the mi
prevailed upon her ; but when the breakfast'
over, in the gray dawn of the next mornind
children were delighted to see their mother pu
on her green calash (that 's what the women
their sun-bonnets when I was a little girl)
wrapping the baby in his blanket, to go with t!

Johonnet's Acre was three miles off, anc'
wildest, most delightful spot in all Pemigeu
Valley. And it was just as Milan Straw had
Every bush was bending low under its weig!
plump, dark, luscious berries. Baskets, pail:
dippers were filled again and again, and eir
into the firkin after the luncheon was taken

PATTIKIN S HOUSE.

257

THE BLACKBERRY PARTY AT JOHONNET S ACRE,

jrt H they ate as many as they possibly could, and ister picked faster than any of them, till the sugar-

their lips and fingers royally purple. firkin, and another they had brought, were both full.

! "heir mother laid the baby down in his blanket and heaped up so they could n't get the cover on.

, ail ! ; ler a shady bush, and picked too ; and the min- Then they sat down on the grass and rested and

25»

PATTIKIN S HOUSE.

[February, I

ate their luncheon, and wished there had been
more, and picked berries off the top of the firkins
till the covers would go on. And their father told
them the wonderful story of Samson ; how he car-
ried off the gates of the city on his shoulders ;
how he killed the lion, and all about the riddle,
and also about the foxes with firebrands tied to
their tails. The children never tired of this story,
though they had heard it many times.

And then it was time to go home, for the pony
must have dinner and a good rest before he went
to Chester.

Only Seth and Samuel were to go to Chester.
This was so well settled that there was no teasing
even from Pattikin. Very manly and important,
the two set off, armed with directions how and
where to tie Old Gray, — what to do, and what not
to do, in every possible emergency.

Very proud and satisfied they came back at
sundown, and delivered the firkin, heavy with the
coveted sugar, into the eager hands of the bevy of
brothers and sisters who came out to meet them.

Chapter II.

THE MINISTER'S TOMATOES.

One afternoon in the spring, before the black-
berrying, of which I told you, Thirza and Tilda
went across the road to visit Mrs. Vesta Preston.
Mrs. Vesta was young Mrs. Preston's aunt, and
lived upstairs, and never got out of the chair be-
cause she had had paralysis. Mrs. Preston took
good care of her. But the poor lady often got
very tired of sitting all alone in her room with no
one to speak to, for Mrs. Preston must be about
her work down-stairs ; so Thirza and Tilda went to
see her quite often, and their visits were always
acceptable.

They carried their work and sewed this time,
because they had not finished their shirt, and Mrs.
Vesta liked to see them sew. Sometimes they
carried her flowers in the summer time, and in
autumn the gayly colored maple leaves, or bunches
of wintergreen berries, or, if nothing else was to be
found, bits of the red-tipped moss. There was no
season that the woods did not yield something to
reward their search — no, not even when the ground
was thickly covered with snow, for wasn't there
always spruce gum on the trees ?

But this time it happened they had nothing to
bring. On the contrary, Mrs. Vesta had some-
thing for them.

" It 's a new kind of seed," she explained. " My
niece sent them from down below. She says they
produce a vine that bears a beautiful red fruit larger
than a plum or an apple, — not at all like either, —

but very nice, stewed for sauce or eaten raw. Th
city folks set great store by them. They call them!
tomatoes, and they must be planted early in a hot-
bed, if you want them to do much up here."

" But we have n't any hot-bed," said Tilda.

"But you can plant them in a box, and keepl
them in the window," said Mrs. Vesta.

" Yes 'm ; so we can. And we've got earth
enough in the box I had my geranium in last fall
It 's down cellar yet," said Thirza.

They went home, very proud of the six preciou;
seeds that they carried carefully wrapped in paper.

The minister entered into their project with zea
He showed them how to make small birch bar!
boxes, in each of which they could plant one seed
Then when the garden was ready the boxes couk
be cut apart and the plant set in the ground with
out disturbing its roots.

The boxes were set in a row along the soutl
window, and watched, and tended and watered
and the result was five strong, healthy plants t
set in the garden when the middle of May came.

" I hope the 'matos wont smell so, as the vine
do. If they do, I sha' n't want any, I 'm sure,
said Pattikin.

It was not long after that blackberry excursio
that the first fruits of the tomato-vines were ripene(
The minister went out to the garden in the afte
noon, followed by Thirza, Sandy, Tilda and Pal
tikin, to gather them.

"They are beauties, anyhow; and I'm sure
shall like them," said Thirza.

"So am I," said Tilda.

But Pattikin smelled them, and withheld hi
judgment.

They did n't know about scalding off the skin
so the minister pared them with his pocket-kni(
Then they put them into the stew-pan, and ve
soon they were cooked.

" I wonder whether they should be sweetened
said the minister, bending over them and stirrin
for in such an important affair he could n't lea
the cooking entirely to the feminine departmer
He dipped out a spoonful and cooled it with 1
breath, and tasted. He just restrained a wry fac
The children, watching, knew that too.

"Run over, Tilda, and ask Mrs. Preston wb
we should use for seasoning."

Tilda came back in a minute, breathless :

" Salt and pepper, and a bit of butter."

" Oho ! Here goes, then."

And he was about to feston the condiments \vi
lavish hand.

" Let me," said his wife, who better understo
the proper proportions to use.

So she salted, and peppered, and buttered, a
then they were poured out into the best saui

,n-l

PATTIKIN S HOUSE.

259

;h, which had been brought from the parlor cup-
ard for this grand occasion.

"T think it smells kind o' good," said Simon, as
=y drew their chairs about the table. The best
rce-plates were out too, and the father served a
rtion to each. Then there was a general tasting;
,:n queer, doubtful looks at one another; and
on a general smiling, which quickened into
[ghter, and a merry peal rang out through the
: open windows, the echo of which reached even
j.poor Mrs. Vesta's cars as she- sat in her lonely
stairs apartment.

' To think we 've worked, and watched, and
;ed all summer for those things," said Seth,
ning away the tears his mirth had brought.

m/':

PATTIKIN.

ie minister had laughed with the rest, but he
fnot, like the rest, inclined to give it up so.
' were said to be very healthy ; the city people
i them highly, and he -was going to like them.
: tasted, and tasted again, till by dint of per-
it trying, he almost thought he did like them
e.

Vhat shall I do with those that are left ? " asked
ife, when the meal was over,
iive 'em to the pigs," said Simon.
t Mrs. Jones (have I told you the family name
ones?) still looked at her husband and waited
iswer.
Veil," said he, ''there will be more ripe in a

few days, and then I will try them cut up raw,
with salt and vinegar and pepper. 1 think I should
like them better that way."

So the pigs had the remaining portion, which
was the largest part of the cooked tomatoes.

The vines were astonishingly prolific. They
gave their fruit lavishiy, prodigally, recklessly, and
still kept on blossoming and forming new fruit, as
if there always would be more behind, till frost
came. By that time the minister had really learned
to like them ; and Simon and Thirza and Tilda,
who always wished to do as their father did, liked
them too. But nothing could induce Pattikin to
taste them again.

They learned to dry them, to make catsup of
them, to seal them up in bottles ; and, in short,
the tomato was from this time an institution in the
minister's family.

Chapter III.

GATHERING CORN.

The minister had a farm — a very little one —
three or four acres. One-half was devoted to corn
and potatoes, and a few scraggy old apple-trees.
The other half was devoted chiefly to mineralogy.
There was plenty of the " testimony of the rocks "
there, if the children could have read it. They
often wondered about them. How did they all
come there ? — sugar-loaf rocks ; low flat-topped
rocks large enough to be called ledges; big, high
masses, equal in size to a moderate dwelling-house,
cleft down the middle as smoothly as if done with
a knife. Was that done when ''the earth did quake,
and the rocks rent, and darkness was over all the
land?"

There were, too, miniature caves, which the lit-
tle girls furnished after their simple fashion, and in
which they played through many a bright summer-
day, where they bestowed their treasure of gray
moss and green, and the mineral collections with
which they were forever loading down their pockets.

But, more than all the rocks and caves, they
prized the frog-pond that lay beyond the ledges,
and reached away out into Mr. Iturbide's pasture.
Such plays as they had there on Saturday after-
noons, or in vacation after the corn was got in !
But speaking of the corn reminds me that I in-
tended to tell you in this chapter about work
and not about play. For it was all ready to be
gathered.

Seth, and Samuel, and Simon cut the stalks.
Seth had a. long knife with a red handle that he
thought looked like a sword, and he led his army
out to invade the field, with all the dignity and
confidence of a great general. Simon had a sickle
shaped like a half-moon. Simon had a nondescript

26o

PATTIKINS HOUSE.

[Ff.bruary

sort of knife, which had been freshly sharpened,
and could be made to do great execution.

Sandy guided the gray pony, which was har-
nessed to the green wagon to carry up the corn to
the barn, where they would husk it. The girls
gathered the stalks into bundles, which they tied
with pumpkin-vines, and loaded the wagon with,
them.

Pattikin thought she helped amazingly, but
the most she did was to stub her toes against the
corn-stubble and fall over the great yellow pump-
kins, and gnaw sweet apples. Once she said,
" Oh, dear ! I keep stubbin' my toes for ever 'n'
everlasting."

Then Thirza said, " I would n't work. Sit down,
and rest awhile." So Pattikin sat down.

While she was resting, the gray and white kitten
came down into the field, and went about rubbing
herself against the children. Pattikin caught her
and held her in her lap. and whispered in her ear:
"You stay here with me, and when the load goes
up to the barn, we '11 have a ride. They don't 'low
anbody but me to ride ; but I '11 smuggle you up in
my apron so they wont see."

The kitty nestled down in Patty's lap, and pur-
red as if she understood. Pretty soon the load was
ready, and Pattikin scrambled up on top by the
help of Thirza, who pushed her up from behind.
She was a little slow and awkward about it, be-
cause of the load in her apron.

And Seth called out, " Come, hurry. We want
to get started quick. We 've got so much to do."

Because their father was going to Association
next day, and must use the gray pony, he had
promised them, if they could get the corn all in
that night, in the evening he would help them
make molasses candy.

When Pattikin was up, she chose her seat on
top of a bundle of stalks, and they went bumping
along. Once or twice, Kitty, who wasn't used to
riding over such rough ground, tried to get out of
the apron and jump down to run away on her own
feet, which, I suppose, she thought much the safer
way of getting through the world. At length she
really did get out, and gave a daring leap right
over the wagon wheel, and coming to the ground
right side up, as they say a cat always will, scam-

pered for the house. Pattikin had reached ou
a little too far in trying to recover her, the bundl
of stalks she was sitting on rolled and went off ove
the wheel, and Patty after it.

There was a deal of shouting and whoaing befor
the pony was stopped. The children gatherei
round to see if any bones were broken. To thei
great joy, Pattikin had escaped with only a littl
bump on her forehead and a bruise on her kn
from some stones that lay in the way.

'"They are always coming all over the field
those stones!" said Sandy. "We pick them a
out clean — bushels and bushels of 'em — after ever
plowing, but there are always just as many,
believe they grow."

" Our farm will be all stone-wall after awhile, i
it goes on so many years," said Samuel.

"I suppose there'll have to be another ston
picking this fall," said Sandy.

"Yes," said Seth, "after the crops are all i
You'd better walk the rest of the way, Patty."

"Oh, I don't want to," said Pattikin. "M
knee aches awful, and I should n't wonder if I g<
lamer."

So, as Pattikin was rather spoiled by the res
they helped her up again, and cautioning her
take a safer seat, they went on.

" We're going to dig pertaters, to-morrow," sa
Sandy. " I heard father say so."

"Pertaters! I can talk better grammar th
that myself," said Pattikin.

"Better be looking out that you don't fall c
the load than minding my grammar," said Sand
tickling the bottom of her foot with a straw, by w
of retaliation.

" Poh ! I 'm not going to fall off again," s
Patty, curling her feet up under her dress
protection.

" I would n't talk about grammar till I could £
association," said Sandy.

" I can — sosation," said Pattikin.

All the chilren laughed.

"There!" said Thirza. "You be still, nc
Sandy ! Father said we were not to quarrel."

They got the corn all into the barn by sunduv

and after supper, the minister said But t

must come in the next chapter.

(To be continued.)

877.)

THE CRAFTY FOX.

26l

THE CRAFTY FOX.

By Howard Pyle.

A CERTAIN fox was extremely desirous of gain-
\g admission into a poultry-yard, the lord of which
as a cock of good blood and extremely aristocratic
,ays, so the sly animal soon contrived to secure
s acquaintance and even friendship.
One day as the gosling (who was a protege of

" Well, sir, you are abrupt in your manners,
and overbearing to your inferiors.

" Am I, indeed ? " said the cock still more coldly.

" Yes, sir ! And then you are excessively quar-
relsome, beside being very selfish."

" Hah !" exclaimed the cock, angrily.

THE GOSLING STATES HIS OPINION OF THE COCK.

cock's), the cock himself, and the fox were to-
iler, the conversation turned upon the subject
icrsonal faults.

aid the cock: "I feel conscious that I have
/ many faults, and nothing would I so much
le as some real friend who would show them to
Now, I dare say, gosling," continued he, turn-
to that humble creature and smiling blandly. —
dare say, gosling, that even you have noticed
presence of some few small faults in me. Is it
so? Speak frankly, my little friend."
he gosling was immensely elated at this chance
roving himself the true friend desired.
Oh yes, sir;" he said, eagerly, "I have no-
1 the presence of a great many, indeed."
Oh, have you? "said the cock, coldly, "And
t are they, pray ? "

" Then, sir. not only do you treat your children
badly, but you neglect your wife also. Beside all
these "

" Stop ! " cried the cock, in a violent rage, "What
do you mean by charging me with faults that I
never possessed ? You are an insolent scoundrel

and a sneak — you — you " And unable to

contain himself longer, he fell upon the unhappy
gosling and tore three beakfuls of down from his
head.

" I marvel," said the fox, as the wretched gosling
made his escape, screaming loudly with pain and
terror, " I marvel that one so constantly associated
with you could thus malign you to your face.
Those are not your faults."

" Well, what are they then ?" said the cock, still
somewhat ruffled.

262

THE CRAFTY FOX.

[FebruariI

" Did I not know your extreme patience under
correction, I should hesitate to tell them, or rather
it, for I have only noticed one in my acquaintance
with you. You are, sir, I grieve to say it, but you
are, sir, extremely haughty and exclusive in your
manners. Your blood, your aristocratic breeding,
your culture, and your refinement all tend to cause
you to look upon your more vulgar yet still honest
fellow-creatures with a courteous haughtiness, if
I may so express it. It is a fault to which your
superior station may plead some extenuation ; still
it is a fault. Let me beg you, honored sir, to cor-

he would scarcely deign to notice the other barn
yard creatures.

One day the fox said : "It has always been a sub
ject of much wonder to me why a creature of so mucl
intellect, and with such a proper amount of sell
respect as yourself, should submit, as you do, t
the absolute rule of human beings. Now here ar
I. a simple-minded, jog-trot animal, with not onf
half the wit and shrewdness of the least one o
you here in the barn-yard, and yet I am absolutel
free and untrammeled in my movements. I ow
allegiance to no one and am my own master, whil

^b s \«.

THE GOSLING IS PUNISHED.

rect this one failing, and so render yourself the
model of perfection you would then be. Recollect,
sir, that though humbler, we are still your fellow-
creatures."

The cock stood upon one leg meditating for a
long while upon this speech; at length he heaved
a sigh, and said :

" I feel that you are correct; you have acted the
part of a true friend. Yes, I confess that you are
correct."

From that time the cock's friendship for the fox
greatly increased, while his overbearing manners
toward the other creatures in no wise diminished.

The crafty fox frequently turned the conversation,
in their subsequent interviews, upon the subject of
family distinction, and cunningly contrived so to
flatter the vanity of the cock that, in time, he be-
came puffed up with pride to such an extent that

you and your humbler associates are dependent
the very necessaries of life upon the will of yi
masters."

" That is very true," said the cock, reflectivel
" Now," continued the fox, " I have thought
a most excellent idea. I know a delightful ;
secluded spot, sir, where a little colony could
started far away from the habitation of man. ;
where you could soon show the world that inti
gent pQiiltry need not be entirely subservient to
will of these miserable human beings. Here
you with blood, breeding and great natural dig:
of bearing (I need hardly mention such a well-kni
quality of yours as intelligence), a born rulei
fact. If, now, some of your mentally advar
creatures — such, for instance, as the geese and
keys, and even the ducks — would only be persus
to start a small community somewhere, you,

THE STARS IN FEBRUARY.

263

ive the very making of a king or even an em-
:ror in you, and might prove yourself an excellent
p;tample of a noble and generous ruler."

This plan pleased the cock amazingly.

"I shall consider your proposition," said he.
'And you can guide us, you say, to such a spot as
,iu have mentioned ?"

"Certainly, sir! I know the very place," said

e fox.

The idea of the colony took root in the poultry-

yard immediately, and spread in popularity amaz-
ingly, for each creature imaginec that he himself
had the ability, mentally, to become in time a
prominent politician, if not a leader. One night,
accordingly, everything was arranged, and the
crafty fox guided the poor deluded creatures to a
most secluded portion of the adjoining forest.

None of them ever returned again, yet it was
rumored, far and wide, that the crafty fox was sub-
sisting entirely upon the little community.

THE STARS IN FEBRUARY.
By Richard A. Proctor.

The northern heavens present no change of
?cial importance since last month. The Dragon
i been carried away from his former hovering
iiition, and now appears as if swooping down-
ird, though in a direction contrary to that of his
1 motion around the pole. The ancient ob-
vers do not seem to have attached any impor-
ce, by the way, to the direction in which the
:-sphere turns ; and, indeed, a motion so slow
not to be perceptible by ordinary vision might
1 be left out of account in forming imaginary
■-groups. Some of the figures go forward, as
ion, the Great Bear, Bootes (the Herdsman), the
n, and so forth ; others go backward, as the
igon, the Ram, the Bull, Pegasus (the Winged
rse), and so on; while others, like Ophinchus,
Serpent-Bearer, are supposed to face the ob-
■er and so travel sideways ; and others, again,
ttej on their head, as Hercules, Cepheus, and
Iromeda. It is quite clear that those who in-
ijted the constellation figures did not trouble
unserves much about the rotation of the star-

; t .

L here may be noticed in the northern heavens,
seen in February, a vacant space above the
i, girt round by the constellations Auriga (the
doteer) overhead, Perseus (the Rescuer), Cas-
sia (the Seated Lady), Cepheus (her royal hus-
1), and the two Bears. In this poverty-stricken
i )n there are no stars of the first three magni-
s, and only four or five of the fourth magnitude,
ancient astronomers couid imagine no con-
ations in these spaces. It is to the moderns,
. especially to Hevelius, that we owe the con-
itions which have been figured in these barren

districts. The Cameleopard, or Giraffe, is one ; the
Lynx another. I cannot say, for my own part, that
I see either a giraffe or a lynx there. Certainly, if
you draw the connecting lines shown in the map,
you get as fair a picture of a giraffe (inverted at
present) as can possibly be made with a couple of
lines ; but it seems to me — though I do not claim
to be an artist — that rather more than two lines are
needed to picture a respectable giraffe. Besides,
the lines are not on the sky, and the liveliest fancy
would not think of connecting these stars by im-
aginary lines, so widely remote are the stars, and
so insignificant.

The Little Bear is now gradually getting round
(at the selected hour of evening observation) to a
position such as a bear might reasonably assume.
Last month, this small bear was hanging head
downward by the end of his absurdly long tail. He
is now slowly rising from that undignified position,
and by next month he will have fairly placed him-
self on his feet. For the present we can leave him
to his struggles; but next month we shall consider
his history and the duties which he has discharged
for many hundreds of years.

Turning to the southern skies, we find full com-
pensation for the relatively uninteresting aspect of
the northern heavens. The most resplendent con-
stellation in the heavens is now in full glory in the
south. There, close to the meridian, or mid south,

" Begirt with many a blazing star,
Stands the great giant Algebar,
Orion, hunter of the beast.
His sword hangs gleaming by his side,
And on his arm the lion's hide,
Scatters across the midnight air
The golden radiance of its hair."

264

THE STARS IN FEBRUARY

No one can mistake this most beautiful constella-
tion. The two bright shoulder stars, Betelgeux (n)
and Bellatrix (j), the brilliant star Rigel on the
giant's advanced foot, the triply gemmed belt (C, e,
and 6), and the pendent sword tipped with the
bright star t, distinguish Orion unmistakably. But,

say nothing of numbers of faint stars scattered al
over it, justify the words of the poet, who sang:

" Orion's beams! Orion's beams!

His star-gemmed belt, and shining blade ;
His isles of light, his silvery streams,
And gloomy gulfs of mystic shade."

O is the'pomt overhead' '~ . o isffiepointm-erheadlbrr/ic

for die latitude of -Philad*^^ — ~9^\ '^—^Jat'f'ofBostori Ojfy-lat'hfWrAam

^Starof/stJlfa^JX ( A^ R1GA o \Starof2i,il]lfc,^'it
* „, „3rd„/i\ '

/ Ca/jeua.

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CA'MflLEiOP

,\ r n

■''' 'ot^

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aT[POL£

t <

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1 ■»„■ w -.J
URSA *--. .
MINOR ' - if.g

CYGNvJS

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■ Horizon 0/ \London ffifay)

TheNorthernSkjat/0vMJa?i£O,at£vu_Fel> 4 f and at 8 p. m JFed 19.

besides these glories, there are others ; the curve
of small stars forming the giant's shield (a lion's
hide), the misty light of the great nebula which
lies on the sword (where shown), and on clear
nights the dappled light of the Milky Way, which
really extends over a part of this constellation, to

From the first beginning of astronomy, and pi
ably long before astronomy was thought of,
constellation was figured as a giant; sometim
giant hunter, a sort of celestial Nimrod ; someti
as a warrior. He commonly wielded an im
club in his right hand (the star v marked the ha:

THE STARS IN FEBRUARY.

265

the club), and a shield (formed by the stars ir,,
'etc.) in his left. The star of the constellation
idanus really marks the giant's bent knee ; and
ginally the constellation Lepus (or, the Hare)
med a chariot in which the hunter or warrior
od. In some old manuscripts of the middle

The cut on the next page shows Orion as lie is
now generally pictured. He is somewhat out of
drawing, because of the necessity of keeping cer-
tain stars in particular positions with respect to
him. Thus Betclgcux is derived from the Arabic
ibt-al-jauzd, the giant's shoulder. Liellatrix, or the

O vptIi p f\ c\ 1 '

O is the point overhead v'bijwou ols (ftgpgintoYcrJieadJlirthe

fort/ie latitude of ffiilad?

Jat'ofjBosCon OfortaiiaWeaiis

* „ „Jrd „/

Starof2ndMay & '%
V • 4& „ +

CAN IS
MINOR

a ;*?

.Procyou

mJm-

W0mmmmM

Aid'"* j

O R I ,'0 N J *j

% 4 JHicel7+r—~T"

,-K ^Jiritu •< y
■ :S + i/a~~~-k / j
;GftN IS -MAJOR ' , ri0 LE

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PUFgflS *w —.Horizon o^ondon/ihyj—

R/°G O

' I !=" ■ I' 1 ''!-!'.-:! ' : - :' : ' , !l ii '' ill W> ,-!'i.^ l ^ , ,^ , .:;■:. ,

-Horizon of JVew Orleans —

Moston
fliitad<<
Zouisv/tlc

r/ieSoutherniSRyat?OvMJan.J?0;at9v uFeb 4 ; andatdv. M.Iei fj>.

the stars of Lepus formed a throne for Orion.

ict, this little constellation, although named

'■[are from time immemorial, has been called

1 ' feral other names, insomuch that Ideler, after

11 lg several names, wrathfully adds, "And God

5 how many more there are."

"OL. IV. — 18.

Amazon star, belongs of right to the other shoulder,
and Rigel to the advanced foot, while the three
stars of the belt fix the position of the giant's waist.
To tell the truth, he is an ill-shaped giant, anyway,
and cannot be otherwise depicted.

Below Lepus (the Hare) you sec the neat little

266

THE STARS IN FEBRUARY

[Februaw

group Columba, or ihe Dove. This is one of
the younger constellations, and was invented by
Hevelius, perhaps to show that the ship Argo,
which you see low down on the left, is no other
than Noah's Ark. In fact, the name given to the
small group originally was Columba Noachi, or
Noah's Dove. Approaching the mid south, you
now see the brightest star in the whole heavens —
Sirius, the famous Dog-star. The constellation
Canis Major, the Greater Dog (which might much
better be called simply Canis), was one of Orion's
hunting-dogs, Canis Minor being the other; but
we can hardly suppose Lepus was the sole prey
pursued by so great a giant and two such fine dogs.
The constellation Canis Major is chiefly remarkable
for the Dog-star. In old times this star was thought
to bring pestilence. Homer speaks of it (not by
name, however) as the star

"Whose burning breath
Taints the red air with fevers, plagues, and death."

Many among the ancients supposed that this star
was in reality as large as the sun. Thus Manilius
said :

" 'T is strongly credited this owns a light
And runs a course not than the sun's le=s bright;
But that, remov'd from sight so great a way,
It seems to cast a dim and weaker ray."

It has been show-n in our own time, however, that
even this estimate, which was by many thought too
daring, falls far short of the truth. It has been
calculated that Sirius gives out three hundred times
as much light (and doubtless three hundred times
as much heat) as our sun. So that it would make
us rather uncomfortable if our sun were removed
and Sirius set in his place. Sir W. Herschel says
that when he turned his large four-feet mirror on
this star, the light was like that of the rising sun,
and it was impossible to look at the star without
pain to the eye. Sirius is in reality in rapid motion,
though, owing to his enormous distance, he seems
at rest. He is rushing through space at the rate
of about thirty miles in every second of time ! In
a year he traverses nearly six times the distance
which separates our earth from the sun. But this
enormous annual journey is only about TTn'ouoth
part of the distance which separates him from our
earth; and as he is traveling away from us, we
need not be greatly troubled on account of him.
He is so far from us that his light has been no less
than twenty years on its way to us, so that in reality,
instead of saying we see Sirius, we ought to say we
see where Sirius was some twenty years ago. Most
of the stars are even farther away, so that if every
one of them were in a single instant destroyed, we
should still see them — that is, their light — for many

years, and probably the greater number of then
would still seem to be shining in the heavens lonj
after the youngest of us were dead ; perhaps evei
after our great-grandchildren had passed away.

Canis Minor, the Lesser Dog, is a much less im-
portant star-group than Canis Major ; but still it i
one of the old constellations. Its chief star is calk'
Procyon, or the Fore-dog, because this star is see
as a morning star earlier than Sirius. The Arabia
astronomers gave it a name of similar meaning, !
wit, Al-kelb-al-mutekaddem j but I think Procyo
sounds almost as well, and as it is the name b
which the star is usually called, it may, perhaps, f
better to use it instead of the Arabian name, thoug
this is very pretty. Procyon, like Sirius, was suj

THE CONSTELLATION ORION.

posed to be a star of evil omen, especially as brii
ing bad weather. " What meteoroscoper," s
Leonard Digges, the astrologer, "yea, who thai
learned in matters astronomical, noteth not
great effects at (he rising of the star called
LitelDogge?"

The constellation Gemini, or the Twins, is r
approaching the south, but will be more fully wit
the range of our next monthly map. The s
marked c is that of Cancer, or the Crab, wh
the sun enters at midsummer. You will obse
that we have now reached the part of the ecli]
highest above the equator, which is, of course,
part reached by the sun at midsummer. The pi
marked c is at its highest in the south at noon

A VALENTINE.

267

about June 21st, and is then occupied by the
1 ; it is at its highest in the south at midnight on
about December 20, and the sun is then exactly
josite to this point, or at his lowest below the
rthern horizon.

irhose who live as far south as New Orleans, see

\i raised above the horizon the star Canopus, in

stern of the good ship Argo. There is pre-

' ted to them, at this season, a view of more first

magnitude stars than can be seen at any other time
in one quarter of the heavens. For besides the
splendid equal-sided triangle formed by Procyon,
Betelgeux, and Sirius, they see Aldebaran, Rigel,
and Canopus, the last-named surpassing every star
in the heavens except Sirius alone.

Next month, the great ship Argo will have come
better into view ; and I defer till then my account
of this fine constellation.

[See " Letter- Box. "]

A VALENTINE.

By A. E. C.

If you will be my valentine,
My charming little dear,

The sun can never help but shine
Throughout the coming year.

If you will be my valentine,
You '11 see in all your walks

Fresh lemon-drops on every twig
And peanuts on the stalks ;

The lessons all will put themselves

Into your little pate ;
The hardest sums you have, you '11 see

All answered on vour slate.

While hot mince-pies, all hand in hand,

Meet you at every stile ;
With raisins marching on in front,

And figs in single file.

P. S. — But if from you I never hear,
Nor even get a line,
I '11 ask some other nicer girl
To be my valentine.

268

HIS OWN MASTER.

[Febrimki

HIS OWN MASTER.

T. Trowbridge.

Chapter VIII.

THE ACCIDENT.

The boy lay perfectly still and tried to go to
sleep again. But exciting thoughts kept him
awake. He lived over again the events of the past
few days, — the funeral, the auction, the journey, —
and thought many times of all that Florie and her
mother had said to him.

As it grew lighter he got up, dressed himself
noiselessly, and leaving Alphonse asleep, went out
upon deck.

The pilot's bell was tinkling fitfully. The paddle-
wheels — motionless for a moment, then reversed —
dashed the boiling water into foam. The steamer
was coming to a landing at the foot of a large town
(to Jacob's eyes it looked large) on the Ohio shore.
A few passengers were preparing to land. Among
them Jacob was rejoiced to see the tall Kentuckian.

"We shall be rid of him ! " he thought, and
looked with impatience to see the colonel set foot
upon the gangway plank.

But what was that which Corkright carried in his
hand ? A violin-case ! It resembled Pinkey's so
much that Jacob observed it with a start of sus-
picion and alarm. He drew near, to get a closer
look at it. He felt sure it was the professor's.

The deck-hands already had hold of the plank,
or " bridge," to push it out. In less than a minute
Corkright would be gone. There was not an in-
stant to lose. The boy ran back to the state-room,
and made a hasty search. The violin was not
there.

" Mr. Pinkey ! Oh, Mr. Pinkey ! " cried Jacob,
shaking his friend, who lay asleep in his clothes.

" What 's wanting ? " snarled the dancing-master,
starting up, and seeing Jacob.

" That man — Colonel Corkright — has got your
violin ! "

" What of it ? Can't a gentleman have a fiddle,
but you must "

" But he is going off with it ! — going ashore ! "
said Jacob, all excitement. " I '11 stop him ! I '11
tell the captain ! "

He was hurrying out. Alphonse called after him
sharply :

" You wont do anything of the sort ! Come
back here, you ninny ! It 's all right."

Perfectly bewildered. Jacob turned and stared at
his friend.

" I 've sold him the violin," said Alphonse. " He

took a fancy to it, and offered me a right smart
price — and I 've a much better one than tha)l
Don't make a fool of yourself. Let me sleep." I

Pinkey sank back upon the pillow, in which h *
buried his rumpled ringlets. Jacob could not hel .
speaking a word in self-defense.

'• I had heard you say you thought so much ( .
that violin — you would not part with it for anythil
— it was worth twice its weight in gold ! So whj ,
I saw him going ashore with it, of course I J •

But here Alphonse made an impatient mov : .
ment, and Jacob withdrew, reaching the gangw< ,
just in time to see Corkright move off with tl
violin.

Pinkey did not appear at breakfast, nor inde
for some hours after. Jacob looked into the stal
room two or three times during the forenoon, a
saw him still lying in the berth, with his disorder
curls about his face.

At last, going in about dinner-time, he fou
him disentangling the said curls before the glass,

"Hallo! Come in, boy!" said the profess
as Jacob hesitated. " I took cold on deck last nij
— had a horrible headache this morning — but I
all right now."

The charming Alphonse was himself again
boy sat down on a stool and watched his friend
his toilet.

" How are the ladies?" said Pinkey, twirlin
ringlet round his finger.

" Rather lonesome without you, I should thi
— for I suppose you mean the sisters."

" To be sure I do. I lay awake half the ni
trying to decide in my mind which to choose."

Jacob knew that this was a prodigious fib ;
he was too glad to see Alphonse in a chee
mood again, to question the accuracy of his st-
ments.

"Lonesome, did you say? What makes
think so ? "

" They are not half so gay as they were ye;
day ; and I heard them inquiring about you.''

" No doubt of it ! " laughed Alphonse

"And about Colonel Corkright."

" Bah ! " Pinkey shook his ringlets, wit
shrug. "Well, what did anybody tell 'em a'
me and the colonel ? "

" Somebody said Corkright got off the bo<
take the cars ; and then Dory — or Doshy — I
tell 'em apart "

" Dory is the one in green, — no, the one in

E
1
"

HIS OWN MAST E R .

269

s she ?" said Alphonsc. " I did know, but

Ho ! what in the name of "

5 inkey did not finish his sentence, for the reason

t lie suddenly went reeling over against the

ths with the water-pitcher, which he had just

:d for the purpose of filling a glass.

acob also, seated upon his stool, found himself

ried over against the lower berth, with a strange

mentum ; and at the same time there resounded

horus of screams and a clashing of chairs in the

oining cabin.

t happened that the passengers were just sitting

i/n to dinner, when everybody and everything

tit swaying and lurching all one way, toward the

This singular pressure of all objects forward

ed three or four seconds, the boat meanwhile

ininsr from stem to stern. Then it ceased. The

ine was silent. The steamer had stopped.
S : An accident ! " cried Jacob, starting up wildly.
*<■ Got aground, that 's all," said Professor Pinkey,
coolly proceeded to fill his glass.

Chapter IX.

ON A SAND-BAR.

\COB ran out to make an observation, and soon
ie hurrying back with news.
J We 're fast aground on a sand-bar, between a
sandy island — what they call a tow-head— and
Ohio shore. There was plenty of water where
ire a few days ago, and they say the bar has
ly been formed."

The sand-bars in the river are constantly shift-
" replied Alphonse. "I've been aground on
before ! "

IThe woods here are close to the shore," said
ib; "and there seems to have been a sort of
s in one place, where some trees have fallen
i into the water. We had just passed the fallen
3 when we struck. There 's a broader passage
i the other side of the tow-head, but there are
there too ; and, besides, there was a steam-
: in there, with ten flat-boats in tow, loaded with

Well, what 's the prospect of our getting off? "
Pinkey, putting on his coat and buttoning it
ie waist.
Poor, I think. The engine is backing water

Vusly, but we don't move. I heard the mate

;he captain — who was just sitting down to din-
when we struck — that it's a serious business."
No doubt," said Alphonse, gayly. "Serious
he boat, and for people who are in a hurry,

iM)t for gentlemen of leisure like us, Jacob. Be
in your mind, my boy. Pleasant weather —

!'l company — and we get our board and lodgings
takes a month to make the trip. All ready-

now, Jacob, my boy ! " — and Alphonsc walked out
to dinner.

The passengers, many of whom had gone out
like Jacob to observe the situation, had now re-
turned and taken their seats at the table. Pinkey
found his place with the ladies at the upper end,
where an obsequious waiter had kept his chair
tipped forward for him ; while Jacob went humbly
to a seat near the foot.

The accident afforded an agreeable topic of con-
versation ; and after dinner everybody went out to
witness the efforts making to get the steamboat
off the bar.

A hawser had been stretched to the shore, and a
gang of men were heaving away at it, while the
reversed paddle-wheels revolved. But all to no
purpose. The steamer did not move.

" If they don't get her off soon, they can't in all
summer," said Mr. Pinkey, cheerfully. " The river
is falling, and we shall soon be high and dry here.
I was once two weeks aboard a steamboat aground
on a bar above Paducah. We had to wait for the
river to rise. We hired another steamboat to help
us off, but it was no use, — it snapped the big cable
like a thread. We had lively times, though ; we
gentlemen used to go ashore every day and hunt
wild turkeys. But it was n't so pleasant for old
ladies without any knitting. Think of two weeks
on a sand-bar, Mrs. Chipperly ! "

" Dreadful ! " said Mrs. Chipperly. " What shall
we do ? "

" Have some music, for one thing," cried Dory.
" Oh, Mr. Pinkey ! where 's your violin ? "

Jacob watched Alphonse, and wondered what he
would say.

" Ladies," replied the professor, with his sweet-
est smile, "you know how delighted I should be to
gratify you. But I am distressed to be obliged to
say that I have broken three strings to my instru-
ment, and I have n't another with me."

" How mean ! " said Doshy. " It 's dreadful,
here in the hot sun. Wish we were over in those
nice woods on the bank ! Oh, Mr. Pinkey ! why
can't we get the boat of these men, and have a little
fun ashore ? "

" Oh, daughters ! I can't hear of your going in
the boat ! " said Mrs. Chipperly, fanning herself.
" It 's so dangerous ! "

•' We shall be perfectly safe in Mr. Pinkey's
care," said Dory.

" Certainly," said Alphonse. " I pledge my own
life, madam, that I will bring back your lovely
daughters unharmed. I '11 see the captain. He '11
do anything for me. If we can't have the small-
boat, I '11 make 'em launch the yawl."

He went off, and returned presently.

" All right ! we can have the boat and a couple

270

HIS OWN MASTER.

[February

of men to row us over, as soon as they 've got some
new kink in their hawser, which does n't work right
where it is."

" Oh, Mr. Pinkey, that 's just lovely ! " exclaimed
Dory. " Now let 's make up our party."

The twins having proposed the excursion, and
Mr. Pinkey having engaged the boat, they invited .
whom they pleased to go with them, and a party
of seven was soon formed.

Jacob looked wistfully at Alphonse. Of course
he wanted to go too ; but Alphonse took no notice
of him. And when, after considerable delay, he
saw the boat with its merry occupants push off
without him, his heart swelled with a sense of
wrong.

Avoiding the cable, which was stretched from

not go. He was getting a little acquainted with her
now. She came up to him as he stood gazing ovec
the rail at the pleasant woods where the distant
laughter was.

" Why did n't you go ? " she said.

" I was n't asked to," Jacob replied.

" Why did n't you go without being asked ? "

"Oh, I didn't like to invite myself where 1
was n't wanted."

Florie looked into his face with an arch, quizzica
expression.

" You are a kind of goose ; don't you think yen
are ? "

" Yes, I suppose I am," said Jacob, humbly.

" Do you think," she cried, "if I had wanted t<
go in that boat, I would n't have jumped in am

FLORIf. IN THE SKIFF.

the stern to the farthest of the fallen trunks on the
Ohio side, the boat kept on up-stream until it
reached a landing-place which suited Alphonse.
There the bow was run ashore, and the ladies
helped up the slope.

Jacob heard their gay voices as they gathered
on the bank, and had glimpses of them as they
climbed up into the woods that covered the terrace-
like bluff. He could hear the laughter of the
sisters long after they disappeared from view.
There was a romantic charm about it all, which
kept alive his grief at being left behind.

His only solace was in thinking that Florie did

taki

gone ? I mean, if I were a boy like you.
can do anything, and nobody minds him."
"Don't you do about everything you
notion to ? " Jacob asked.

" Oh no, not half the things ! "

" What is there you deny yourself?"

" Oh, for one thing, I 'd like to step up to yo

friend Mr. Pinkey, almost any time of day, and s

to him, ' Please, don't make a fool of yourself a

more.' It's a dreadful temptation. But I reSl

it. I shut my teeth hard ! " She showed ho

laughing and shaking her curls, as she ran awayl

A steam-tug now appeared, coming up the rivil

HIS O W N M A S T E R .

27I

d it was soon engaged in helping the grounded
at off the bar. Still but little progress was made,
he afternoon was hot and sultry, and it was very
11 on board the steamer.

Chapter X.

JACOB'S LITTLE TRIP UP THE RIVER.

The boat which had taken Pinkey's party ashore
w lay unused under the gangway. Jacob, boy-
e, got into it. When the men came to use it
>iin, he stayed in. He soon began to pull an
r with them. Then when they left the boat, he
ved about in it a little on his own account, keep-
; it within easy reach of the steamer, in case it
mid be wanted.

The captain came to the rail and spoke to him.
:ob held his oars, and looked up, expecting a
'iroof.

Can you pull that boat up to the bank where
LJtkey's party is ? "

Yes, I think so," said Jacob.
I Well, we don't want it now, and you might
it up there and keep it till they want to come
:k. We 're fast working off now. Tell Pinkey
blow the whistle for him when we 're about
Idy to start."
acob was delighted. He dipped the oars with a
He had never had much practice in rowing
ore, and it had a great fascination for him. To
■t off now with an actual commission from the
tain — to pull up against the stream to the boat's
vious landing-place — was something to make
1 proud.

' Oh, let me go with you ! " cried a girlish voice,
i Florie's bright eyes and dancing curls appeared
r the steamer's side.

' Be still, Florie ! " said her mother, drawing
back.

1 I shall be glad to have her go, if you are will-
," said Jacob.

Torie was accustomed to having her own way,

she had it now. The mother consulted the

tain, who said there was no danger. Florie

le running down to the lower deck, where Jacob

.ed the skiff alongside, and she was lowered

k it.

Take good care of her, Jacob ! " said the

her, earnestly.

Oh, I will, — don't fear!" cried the lad as he
ed joyfully away, seated on the middle thwart.
-h Florie's sunny face beaming on him from the
n.

>(e ran under the end of the cable, gave the

boat, which was astern of the steamer, a wide

h. and then pulled over toward the Ohio shore.

" y were soon quite close to the other end of the

cable, but on the upper side of it, just above the
fallen trees, — their leafy tops, still green, half im-
mersed in the water ; while the wooded hill rose
high above.

•' Is n't this nice ? " said Florie.

" I like it," said Jacob, happier than he had ever
been before.

There was no breeze stirring, but the sun had
gone under a cloud, and the air seemed cool there
by the shore.

" Let 's not go for Pinkey's party yet," said
Florie, " but row away up the river, and have a
nice little adventure ! "

Nothing would have suited Jacob so well. But
he thought he ought to report to Pinkey first. So
he pulled to the landing-place, where he got sight
of two or three of the party up in the woods.

" Tell Pinkey the boat is here," he called out to
them. " I '11 be rowing a little way up the stream
till you 're ready to start. But you must start any-
way, the captain says, when the whistle blows."

Having delivered his message, he pushed off
again.

" Oh, now I hope the whistle w'ont blow for an
hour ! " exclaimed Florie.

Jacob hoped so too. And they had their wish.
Evening was coming on, while the skiff glided in
and out and up and down by the shore, in the
yellowish current ; and still there was no call from
the beach, no signal whistle from the boat.

Suddenly Florie exclaimed : " How dark it is
growing ! Is it night ? "

A vast black shadow had fallen upon the river.
Jacob looked up at the sky.

" It 's near night, but it 's that thunder-cloud
that makes it so dark. There 's going to be a
storm. I think we'd better put back."

" Oh yes ! " said Florie. " I 'm not afraid, but
mamma will be afraid for me."

Jacob did not fail to notice this evidence of a
tender and thoughtful heart under all the gay
young creature's fun and nonsense. He also re-
membered his own pledge to her mother.

The boat, propelled by his sturdy young arms,
glided rapidly down the stream to the landing-
place, which it reached just as Pinkey's patty —
probably alarmed by the sudden darkness— came
scrambling down the bank ; all but Pinkey himself
and one of the sisters.

The blackness of the sky and river became ap-
palling. Just then the steamboat's whistle sounded.
A vague fear fell upon Jacob, as he sat by his oars,
impatiently waiting for the passengers. It was
Dory who was missing ; and Doshy scolded her
and Alphonse well in their absence, and called
them with loud screams.

A prolonged growl of thunder shook the sky.

272

HIS OWN MASTER.

[February,

Before it had died away, another signal shriek from
the steam-whistle came sweeping across the water,
and died in hollow echoes along the winding and
hilly shores far up the river. At last Dory and
Alphonse came rustling and crashing through the
woods and down the bank.

They were soon aboard. But it was some little
time before the boat, laden with its full freight of
passengers, could be got off. Alphonse appeared
to be out of spirits, — perhaps in consequence of
Doshy's sharp words, — and did not seem to know
what to do. There were two other men aboard,
but they were afraid of muddying their boots.
The management of the whole matter fell upon
Jacob.

He did not lose his wits.

''Get more on to the stern, ladies, if you
please ! " he cried ; and. jumping into the water, he
pushed off the bow, which had lodged on the slope
of the bank.

As soon as they were afloat, he was aboard, and
at the oars again.

'• You 've wet your feet, Jacob, my boy," said
Mr. Pinkey, standing behind him, between the
thwarts.

" I may get wetter still, — so may we all ! " said
Jacob, straining at the oars, as the first great drops
of the thunder-shower began to dance on the
water.

" And all on your and Dory's account, Alphonse
Pinkey ! " said Doshy. " Just think of our silks, —
it will ruin them ! "

"Don't you want help, Jacob?" asked one of
the men. " I never pulled an oar, but I can
try."

" Thank you. We are all right now. We shall
go down fast enough with the current."

Jacob glanced over his shoulder, to look at
his course. His face was full of wild energy, and
a dark, wild beauty, with the lurid light upon it.
Florie sat in the stern watching him, without saying
a word.

Chapter XI.

SOMETHING SUDDEN.

They were not yet in the full current. They were
passing almost within oar's reach of the great tree-
tops in the water, when a voice sang out from the
tug, a few rods off in the stream :

" Look out for the hawser ! "

Jacob had forgotten all about the hawser. Or,
perhaps, not seeing it anywhere, he thought it had
been cast off from the shore and hauled aboard
the steamer. He looked again. No cable ap-
peared in sight across his course. But now he
heard shouts from the steamer, and again came the

warning cry from the tug: "Look out for the
hawser ! — the hawser ! "

At that moment he caught a glimpse of the
shore end of it, attached to the butt of one of the
great trees. The cable ran down into the water
directly under the course of the skiff. It was
slack. But the stern of the steamboat, to which
the other end was still fast, and which had bee
hauled over toward the shore, was now swinging
off again, swayed by the current.

The cable was straightening, — the cable wa
rising !

Jacob saw the danger, and backed water with al
his might. The darkness, the splashing rain, tW
roar of the thunder, and the shriek of the steam
whistle added terror to the scene.

He was too late. The line rose under the bow
which it caught, and hoisted slowly and steadilj
into the air.

The four ladies sprang up with terrified screams
and either jumped or fell over into the water. On>
or two of the men also went overboard. The rest-
Jacob and Florie among the number — clung to th;
rearing boat, until, the strained cable rising to
height of five or six feet, it slid back heavily, an
fell over, capsized, into the water.

When a frightful accident occurs, it is seldor
that anybody can tell afterward just how it toq
place. Spectators are often more excited than th
actors in it. Moments seem minutes, — minute
almost hours. One person remembers vividly or
thing, another something quite different; and n
two tell the story alike.

We are concerned chiefly with what Jacob f<
and saw.

He had not the faintest recollection afterward
what happened to anybody else, at the time when
was tumbled into the water by the capsizing of tj
boat. He thought of Florie and Alphonse, bi
did not see them, and had not the slightest kno
edge of what had become of them.

When he rose to the surface after his plun
he instinctively caught hold of one side of t]
boat, which was uppermost, and held himsi
there, with his head above water, while he loo
around. Frantic shrieks filled his ears ; and
saw at his side two women clinging to the bo:
sustained and encouraged by one of the men.

He looked for Florie, and saw the skirt of
dress afloat just within his reach. He seized
and drew hard at it, still holding to the skiff,
gardless of the shrieks of one of the women, wr
selfishly viewing only her own danger, told him 1
to pull the boat over in that way.

Jacob hauled at the skirt, then grasped an a
that appeared, and drew a dripping head to '
surface. Everything was so changed by the wat

HIS OWN MASTER.

2 73

I gloom, and the terror that seemed to fill the
ry air, that it was a moment before he was fully
nscious that it was not Florie whose hand he had
'iced securely on the boat. It was one of the
in-sisters, — Dory, as he afterward learned.
iBut where was Florie ? He remembered her
father's charge. He remembered, also, that it
's through his own fatal blundering that the ac-

boat, he might regain it, if he had only himself to
care for. But could he hope ever to bring her to
the boat, or reach it himself again, should he try
to save her ?

Such thoughts flashed through his mind ; he
saw all the danger at a glance ; but he did not
hesitate an instant. He launched out from the
boat, caught the struggling hand (one had already

nt had happened ; and for the first time felt all

horror of the situation.

e heard a faint cry, and saw — where she had

been when he looked before — Florie struggling
"he surface. She had sunk once, and would

ently sink again, — she was already going down.
' Oh, mother ! mother ! " she gasped.

er voice died to a gurgle. Then only her

is were seen.

' le was out of Jacob's reach. He was not a
1 swimmer. If he had loosed his hold of the

11 both

strong instinct of self-preservation, and was drag-
ging him down with her as she sank again in spite
of all his efforts.

The boat was at least three yards away, drifting
slowly with the current. Two persons had reached
the nearest tree-top, where they were clinging and
calling for help. But the tree-top was as far as the
boat. The oars were adrift. And Florie, who had
not heard, or had not understood, a word he said
to her, was strangling him in her paroxysm of fear.

He succeeded in unclasping her hands from his
neck. Still, she clung to him, and would not let

274

HIS OWN M ASTER

f February

him swim. His strength was nearly gone. He
could no longer keep her head above water; he
felt himself sinking.

Suddenly, just as he gave up all hope, a great
object plashed within his reach. It was the haw-
ser, which, having been strained to the utmost by
the swinging off of the steamboat, had now slacked. .

He seized it with one arm, supporting Florie
with the other. He feared it would sink again,
and carry them down with it. But a boat had
already put off from the tug ; swift strokes of six
strong oars brought it to the spot ; and Jacob
and Florie were quickly taken aboard.

The four clinging to the boat were next picked
up. Then the two holding to the tree-top were
rescued. The woman was Doshy, and the man
was not Alphonse.

Alphonse alone was missing.

Jacob was quite beside himself with terror and
remorse as they rowed up and down amidst thun-
der and lightning and pouring rain, picking up a
hat or two, and looking for the lost man.

He did not reflect that he had probably been the
means of saving two lives, — that Florie, if not
Dory, would certainly have been drowned but for
him. He did not consider that they might have
been caught by the cable just the same if anybody
else had held the oars; or that they might safely
have passed it but for the delay occasioned by
Alphonse himself. He saw only the frightful fact
that he had had charge of the boat, — that he had

taken it into danger, — that through him his best
his dearest, his only friend in the world (for h<
could not now remember one of Pinkey's faults
had been drowned.

There could be no doubt of it at last. Grea
was the wonder that he, the most accomplishti
man of all, should have been the only one to pei
ish. It was hardly possible but that a youth wh
knew so many other things, knew also how t<
swim, and there was but one theory to account fo
his death.

"The boat must 'a' fell on him in the wate
when it slewed off the hawser," said one of th
tug's men. " Stunted him, and kep' him fror
comin' up to breathe."

The capsized boat had been righted by th
steamer's yawl. If Pinkey had been under it, h
must have sunk and gone down with the current.

No signs of him were discovered, and it soo
became evident that it was useless to continue th
search with any expectation of rescuing him alive.

It seemed all a terrible dream to Jacob. Th
storm, the half-drowned women and girls huddle
in the bottom of the boat, their friends watchin
in terrible uncertainty from the steamer, Flori
calling, " Mamma ! I am safe ! " All this was bi
the background, as it were, of the awful pictur
The loss of his friend was the chief horror. H
thought of him, but a little while ago so radiant, J
full of life, and now !

Things happened "sudden" with Alphonse,

(To be continued.)

THE PETERKINS AT THE CENTENNIAL.

TRAGEDY.

By Celia Thaxter.

" You queer little wonderful owlet ! you atom so fluffy and small !

Half a handful of feathers and two great eyes! How came you alive at all?

And why do you sit here blinking, as blind as a bat in the light,

With your pale eyes bigger than saucers ? Now who ever saw such a sight !

" And what ails chickadee, tell me ! What makes him so flutter and scream
Round and over you where you sit like a tiny ghost in a dream ?
I thought him a sensible fellow, quite steady and calm and wise,
But only see how he hops and flits, and hear how wildly he cries !

" What is the matter, you owlet? You will not be frightened away ! —
Do you mean on that twig of a lilac-bush the whole night long to stay ?
Are you bewitching my chicka-dee-dee ? I really believe that you are !
I wish you'd go off, you strange brown bird — oh, ever and ever so far!

" I fear you are weaving and winding some kind of a dreadful charm ;
If I leave poor chicka-dee-dee with you, I 'm sure he will come to harm.
But what can I do ? We can't stay here forever together, we three —
One anxious child, and an owlet weird, and a frightened chicka-dee-dee ! "

I could not frighten the owl away, and chickadee would not come,

So I just ran off with a heavy heart, and told my mother at home ;

But when my brothers and sisters went the curious sight to see,

The owl was gone, and there lay on the ground two feathers of chicka-dee-dee 1

THE PETERKINS AT THE CENTENNIAL.
Bv Lucrf.tia P. Hale.

iey went.

te lady from Philadelphia had invited Mr. and
Peterkin and Elizabeth Eliza and the little
to her own house, promising to find rooms

.gamemnon and Solomon John in the neigh-

ood, asking them to take their meals at her

t she lived far down in the city, and Mrs.
kin felt she would not want to go such a dis-

every day to the exhibition. Agamemnon
>olomon John proposed stopping at the Great

Hotel just outside the grounds. The little
wished they could spend the night inside,
anwhile, a friend told them of lodgings they

could have up-town, on the same side ot the river
as the Centennial grounds, and Mrs. Peterkin de-
cided for this. She was afraid of fire in one of the
lath-and-plaster hotels, and Mr. Peterkin agreed
with her.

So a kind and respectful letter was written to the
lady from Philadelphia, declining her invitation,
but hoping to be able to call upon her often during
their visit.

They did not reach their lodgings till late at
night, between eleven and twelve o'clock, so were
scarcely ready for an early start the next morning.
Then they had to hold consultation as to the best
method of proceeding, and to ask their fellow-

276

THE PETERKINS AT THE CENTENNIAL.

[Februar

boarders how to reach the horse-cars, for they
were shocked to find thai they were nearly two
miles from the nearest entrance to the grounds.
Mr. Peterkin, Agamemnon and Solomon John
would not mind walking, but Mrs. Peterkin de-
clared it would be too much for her. and the first
day they all wished to go together. Mrs. Peterkin
had brought with her, all the way, a camp-stool,
as she knew she should want to sit down often and
it might be difficult to find a seat.

Elizabeth Eliza had an extra shawl, Mr. Peterkin
his umbrella, and the little boys their coats ; they
found it something of a walk to Lancaster avenue,
and they were obliged to take it slowly. By the
time they reached it, every car that passed was so
crowded there was not even a foothold. But the
cars going south were all empty. Agamemnon
had heard from one of the returned Centennial vis-
itors that it was a good plan to take a car going
down to the starting point of the upward bound
cars. This they decided to do, it would give them
also a view of the city. They were about an hour
going down, and a little while finding the right
car, but did reach one with plenty of seats. This
soon became crowded, and was slow in its progress,
and it was a long time before they reached the
grounds. They were then sometime in deciding
whether to follow the people who were going into
the Main Building, or those who went in at the prin-
cipal gate. Then Mrs. Peterkin, who carried her
camp-stool, did not like to have the family separa-
ted in going in, so she wanted to manage that all
should go through the turnstile together, which
was difficult to do and to pay their separate fifty-
cent pieces. So when they were all inside, and
Mr. Peterkin looked at his watch, he found it was
already nearly three o'clock ! Now some of their
fellow-boarders had earnestly advised them to come
back early, as the cars were so crowded at a later
hour. And Mrs. Peterkin had made up her mind
it would be best as it was her first day, to return
at three o'clock. At the same time they discov-
ered they were all very hungry, and Mr. Peterkin
proposed they should go back to some of the
numerous restaurants he had seen outside of the
grounds, and then go home. But they all ex-
claimed against this. They were now in the broad
space between the Main Building and Machinery
Hall when, as they walked on, Elizabeth Eliza
espied the sign of the " House of Public Comfort."

" This is exactly what we want," said Mr. Peter-
kin. " We will get our lunch there."

But, unfortunately, there was a very large crowd
by the lunch counter. It was impossible for the
whole family to press up together, and very difficult
to find anything to eat. Solomon John did find
some popped-corn balls in magenta-colored paper

for the little boys, and Agamemnon secured soro
doughnuts for his mother and Elizabeth Elizi
while his father succeeded in eating a few raw oy
ters. The crowd was so great that Mrs. Peterki
could not even open her camp-stool.

"I think now," said she, "Ave had better
back, we have had enough for one day, and ever
body says we ought not over-tire ourselves at tl
beginning, and I am sure I was over-tired when
got here.

Agamemnon thought they had not yet fair!
looked at things. They couldt hardly say wh(
they went back to their boarding-house what thi
had seen. So they all went to the center of tl
large square of entrances by the fountain, a\

looked at the Main Building on one side,

Machinery Hall on the other, and decided th
would do for the first day.

They found a car with plenty of seats, and M:
Peterkin felt herself rested for the walk home frc
the avenue.

The next day they started earl)-, and m
among the first to reach the grounds.

They proposed to take the tour of the grour
in one of the railroad cars. In this way they cot'
get an idea of the whole. They joined a crowd
people rushing to one of the platforms to seci
seats as a train came along. Mrs. Peterkin v
near being left behind, it was so hard for her
decide which seat to take ; and the hurry was
great, the rest of the family, thinking she
going to be left, all got out again and were oblij
to hustle in the minute the train was starting.

The little boys were anxious to get out at
first stopping-place, but Mr. and Mrs. Peter
preferred to make the whole tour and see eve
thing first. In and out they went among
various buildings. Mrs. Peterkin said she wo
ask nothing better than to spend the day in
way. Agamemnon had a map, and tried to pi
out the several buildings as they came to tb
but it was difficult to discover the numbers attac
to them in the map. Meanwhile Solomon J
studied the different colors of the flags. A
some time Elizabeth Eliza said :

" I did not know they had so many of tl
' Woman's Pavilions.' "

" I think they must have one for each Sta
said Mr. Peterkin.

"It is astonishing how much they are alii
said Mrs. Peterkin.

" With so many buildings," said Mr. Peter
"you could not expect to have them all di
ent. "

" Still," said Agamemnon, " I should not tl
they would have so many of these statues of he
with wings."

7-1

THE PETER KINS AT THE CENTENNIAL.

277

" They are very fine," said Mr. Peterkin. " No
nder they repeat them so often."
"They come in pairs," said Solomon John.
"We have seen them five times. I counted,"
d one of the little boys.

Elizabeth Eliza, started : " We must have made
j tour at least five times ! I have seen five
Oman's Pavilions ! "

? This is the very place where we got in," said
lomon John.

The whole family made a rush to get out, for
y had just reached a platform, and the time for
pping was very short. Mrs. Peterkin stooped
extricate her camp-stool, which she had put
ier the seat, and getting it out with trouble, she
ked up to find that the car was taking her on,
1 all the family behind on the platform ! She
hed to get out, but was held back by the other
sengers, who declared she would break her
k if she jumped from the car in motion,
iut at the next stopping- place she felt so flustered
hardly knew what to do, so she kept on and
till she felt she must somehow make up her
id to leave that car, and with a desperate resolu-
1 she stepped out on the platform. She found
self in a deserted part of the grounds, a few
tlemen only getting out to go to the Brewers'
1. Though there was a crowd everywhere else,
'eemed very solitary here. Mrs. Peterkin went
nd and round the Brewers' Hall, uncertain
tre to go. At last a gentleman noticed her,
asked if he could help her. When she told
case, he asked if her family had appointed any
:e of meeting in case of accident. Mrs. Peter-
thought she remembered their talking of the
n Building as a rendezvous. The gentleman
'tsed her taking the train directly for the Main
iiding. She shook her head ; she had already
it the morning in the cars. The gentleman
ed, but asked her to go on with him and he
Id show her where to get out.
Hrs. Peterkin joined him gratefully, and they
i a train at a neighboring platform. But they
r not gone very far, and were making another
, when Mrs. Peterkin gave a scream ! There
her family standing in a row ready to receive
! She was so agitated she could hardly get
and almost fainted with delight at the meet-
appeared that a ticket-seller on the platform
advised the family to take a train back, and
on some platform till they should see their
ier passing. Mrs. Peterkin shuddered to
< how she might have been walking round and
d the Brewers' Hall all day, if it had not been
leeting the kindly gentleman.
le next thing was to get something to eat,

though Mrs. Peterkin was too agitated to think of it;
they went to the Vienna Bakery, not far away, and
found an immense crowd. Only one or two places
could be obtained in the veranda outside, and the
family took turns in sitting. Then it was that Mrs.
Peterkin found she had left her camp-stool in the
car ! The family in general did not regret it, for
it was heavy and inconvenient to carry, and Mrs.
Peterkin confessed she found it difficult to use it,
as it always tumbled over when she went to sit
down. It was one of the three-legged ones.

It seemed now time to go home, but Agamem-
non, who had been studying the map, proposed
they should pass through the Main Building on their
way out, for a glimpse of it, as they had not yet
been inside one of the buildings, and it was their
second day.

They hastened on with this plan, and went in at
the grand middle entrance. And here they felt
as if they were really at the Exhibition. The high
pillars, the crowded aisles, filled them with wonder.

A seat was found for Mrs. Peterkin near the
very middle. Mr. Peterkin, Agamemnon, Solomon
John and Elizabeth Eliza ventured to leave her for
a moment while they looked at the famous Elking-
ton display, and the little boys stood at her side
finishing some popped-corn balls. Suddenly Mrs.
Peterkin saw the rest disappear from her sight.
She sent the little boys to call them back. She
directly left her seat to follow, but she lost sight of
the little boys. There was a seething crowd going
up and down. She tried to return to her seat but
could not find it. Her head was bewildered. She
was sure she must have turned the wrong way. It
all looked so much alike, stair-ways going up to the
dome at each corner, and no signs of her family.
The strains arose from the immense organ of
" Home, Sweet Home." She felt that now she
should never see that home again ! She sat down,
she got up again ! A kindly lady asked if she
could help her, and Mrs. Peterkin was forced to
explain, for the second time that day, that she had
lost her family ! The lady turned to one of the
guards, who asked Mrs. Peterkin many questions.
She described Elizabeth Eliza with a brown dress
and cock's feather in her hat and note-book in her
hand. The guard pointed out seven ladies in
sight, each wearing brown dresses, hats with cock's
feathers, and note-books in their hands, — neither of
them Elizabeth Eliza.

He advised Mrs. Peterkin to wait awhile in the
same place and then go home, as it was growing
late. But how could she go ? She did not have
the address of her boarding-place, and never could
remember those numbered streets. It might be
one number just as well as another. The police-
man asked where she came from ? If anvbodv at

278

THE PETER KINS AT THE CENTENNIAL.

[Febkuari

home knew her address ? Mrs. Peterkin thought
the Bromwichs knew ; the Bromwichs planned
coming to the same place. He then told Mrs.
Peterkin not to stir from her seat till he returned.
She ventured scarcely to look to the right or
the left. Indeed, she was almost sure the eye of
another policeman was upon her. How she hoped
the Bromwichs would never know her position !
It seemed an age that the policeman was gone,
yet she was surprised when he returned with her
address, for which he had telegraphed to the Brom-
wichs. Mrs. Peterkin looked at him in dumb sur-
prise, but he hurried her toward the main exit,
promising to show her to the right cars. Slowly
and sadly she followed to the door, when what was
her astonishment to find, across the door-way in
a straight row, her family awaiting her !

They too were under the care of a friendly police-
man, who had advised them to await their mother
there. Eager to leave, they all hurried away, passed
the difficult turnstile, hastened to the cars.

"Let us get home! Let us get home!" ex-
claimed Mrs. Peterkin. unwilling to listen to any
explanations.

A crowd was pursuing the Lancaster avenue
car, and the family joined in the rush. Mr. Peter-
kin succeeded in lifting in Mrs. Peterkin, Elizabeth
Eliza and the little boys; the rest had to stand all
the way on the edges of the cars.

Mrs Peterkin reached the boarding -place in
hysterics. She passed a restless night, disturbed
by dreams of walking round and round the Brew-
ers' Hall, of Mr. Peterkin falling from the steps of
the cars and being run over, of policemen watching
her, and she declared they must go home, she
could not stay a day longer.

But all the family exclaimed against this. They
had seen nothing as yet.

They decided to stay, and transfer their quarters
the next night to one of the hotels by the grounds.
According to the advice of one of their fellow-
boarders, after depositing and checking their bag-
gage at the House of Public Comfort, they went
to the Massachusetts Building. Mrs. Peterkin was
enchanted with the parlor and its cheery wood
fire, and declared she would prefer to spend the
day there, instead of going into the crowded build-
ings. She had some rolls and sandwiches that she
had brought from the boarding-house that would
serve for her luncheon, and it was agreed she
should be left there for the day, and that the fam-
ily would return for her at half-past four, in time
for a little walk afterward in the grounds.

The family left her, relieved to think of her com-
fort. The heart of Mr. Peterkin swelled as he
thought she was under the protection of the shield
of Massachusetts.

They decided to separate. Mr. Peterkin anl
Agamemnon would take the little boys to the Agr
cultural Building, and to the American Restaura
for lunch, while Elizabeth Eliza and Solomo
John planned the Art Gallery and Les Trois Fren
Provenfaux ; for Elizabeth Eliza had been studi
ing the French grammar, and wanted to try tall
ing a little French. They had heard of all the;
places from their fellow-boarders. They were I
meet in the Main Building, in front of Egypt,
half-past three.

They did all assemble there, to their surprist
but not until much after that hour. Mr. Peterki
and his party were wild with enthusiasm. The
had been through Agricultural Hall, and had see
"Old Abe," looking so much like a stuffed eagli
that they were astonished when he moved h
head. The little boys had bought chocolates ar
candies at every refreshment stand, and had eate
the bread which they had seen made by the baki
of the Queen, and apples cored by the apple-core
and had bought little tin pails of the Leaf-lai
man, and had lunched at the Banqueting-hall <
the American Restaurant, and were now eager
try the restaurants in the Main Building.

Elizabeth Eliza and Solomon John had not
much to report. They were so crushed in the A
Gallery by the mass of people, that Elizabeth Eli
could not even lift her note-book, or examine h
catalogue. She believed they had been into eve:
room in the Art Gallery and in the Annex, but si
could only look at the upper pictures, and con i
not stop at any. She was sure there must be mo
United States pictures than from any other cou
try. The only work of art which she could remei
ber enough to describe was the large bust of Was
ington, sitting on the eagle. They had found
seat near this, where they could examine it closel
and wondered why the eagle was not crushed.

Both Solomon John and Elizabeth Eliza agre
with the little boys that they would like anotb
lunch, for their expedition to the Trois Freres w
not satisfactory, and Elizabeth Eliza fancied th>
waiter could hardly have been a Frenchman, as
did not understand her French.

The little boys were now impatient for the reste
rant, and they found seats in one of the galled'
where it was so pleasant looking down upon t
crowd below, that Mr. Peterkin decided to go
bring Mrs. Peterkin to join them, while Eli
beth Eliza and Solomon John were to order th
oysters. He looked at his watch, and found,
his horror, it was now live o'clock ! And
hastened away. He did not seem to be gone lot
for he came back breathless, to say that M
Peterkin was no longer in the parlor of the Mas
chusetts Building !

RAIN, HAIL, SNOW.

2 79

rs. Peterkin, meanwhile, had enjoyed a com-
ible nap in the quiet room, had walked about
00k at the pictures, had eaten her luncheon,

when the chimes rung twelve, she was sur-

d to find the clay was not farther gone. Still,
sat awhile, and looked out of the window ; but
grew weary and restless, and when a party set
1 from the room to go to the Main Building,
decided to join them.

hey made a little tour first by St. George's

the Japanese Dwelling, the Canada Log-

se, and at last entered the Main Building,

Mrs. Peterkin found herself in Italy. The
whom she had joined took her to see the
wegian groups, where they left her to meet
r of their friends.

le stayed awhile in Norway and Sweden, then
t on to China. Here everything was so strange

she sunk into a seat bewildered. She felt she
in the midst of a weird dream, — strange figures
creens and vases, a mandarin nodding at her,

glaring at her. She wished herself back in

afe parlor; she was sorry she ever had left it.
ii ! did she but know that at that moment
little boys were trying some ice-cream soda
'■ stand, near by ! Wearily she rose again and
ired the time, to find it was after half-past
In her agitation, she went out in front of
building, and took the wrong direction. A
ly lady set her right again, but it was half-
! five when she reached the shelter of the
iachusetts Building, f;oing up the steps at the

moment Mr. Peterkin was announcing the

terrible fact of her disappearance to the astounded
family.

Mrs. Peterkin went in, to find every one gather-
ing bags and parcels, preparing to leave. Where
should she go? She rushed madly toward the
door, and there stood the lady from Philadelphia,
who directly declared she would take Mrs. Peterkin
home with her.

Mrs. Peterkin hardly knew how to leave her
family behind in this uncertainty, but she followed
mechanically the lady from Philadelphia and her
part)-. As they went down the steps, they saw in
front of them Mr. Peterkin and all the family in a
row. Again they had consulted a policeman, who-
had advised them to visit the Massachusetts room
once more.

Mrs. Peterkin spent the next day quietly with
the lady from Philadelphia. The rest of the family
went to the Exhibition. They went through the
Machinery Hall, stopping, as the day before, at
every confectionery-stand and refreshment-room,
wasting some time in the middle of the day, be-
cause Agamemnon preferred seeing the Corliss
engine stop, and Solomon John wanted to wait and
see it set going. But they had seen a great deal,
and, to please the little boys, they had even visited
the Fat Woman outside the grounds.

The next day, the lady from Philadelphia and
her daughters assisted the party to the station. It
was difficult for all to get through the crowd as a
family, but Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin did cling to-
gether, and met Elizabeth Eliza, the little boys, Sol-
omon John, and Agamemnon outside the barrier.

RAIN, HAIL, SNOW.

PlTTER, patter ! pitter, patter !

Hear the rain

Beat against the window-pane !

Clittcr, clatter ! clitter, clatter !

Tells the tale ;

Now the rain is turned to hail !

Soft and light,
Pure and white !
On the ground
Not a sound !
Now we know
It is snow !

2 8o

ESTHER, THE FLOWER-GIRL.

[Februa!

JIM AND THE WATER-MELON.

LITTLE JIM FINDS THE WATER-MELON.

BUT HIS MOTHER SUDDENLY COMES IN.

ESTHER. THE FLOWER-GIRL.

By Emily H. Leland.

Esther was a little London girl. When she
was a baby only fourteen months old, she could
run about on her two chubby legs just as well as
any child. Her mother was a poor wash-woman,
whose whole week was made up of Mondays, and
little Esther had to take care of herself a great
deal. Just fancy a baby taking care of its own self !
Esther used to get very tired of it sometimes ; and
then her mother would lift her from the floor and
call her a poor little chick-a-biddy, and carry her
to the door, where she could see the people, and
the horses and wagons, and sometimes a happy
baby trundling by in his gay little carriage.

One day when her mother was very busy, Esther
thought it would be nice to take herself to the door,